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“Sim, sim. Muito bem. Perfeita.” She dismissed his concerns. “And you? Have you met the girl yet?”

Abruptly the idyll was over and a vision of Natalie popped back into his head.

He sat up and jerked his feet off the desk. “No.”

Ordinarily he brushed off the question with a laugh. It wasn’t as if she didn’t regularly ask him.

Having given up on Xanti ever settling down—though he’d been with the same woman, Katia, for almost a year now—Lucia had made it clear she was counting on Christo to marry and settle down and give her babies to dote on.

He’d never told her he had no intention of marrying because it would upset her. She would think it was her fault, that she hadn’t taught him well enough about love and family and the value of marriage. But today he felt edgier than he usually did.

And his grandmother picked up on it. “You are looking though, sim?”

“I—” Damn it, no. And he didn’t intend to.

“I had a good marriage with your grandfather,” she reminded him. “If he had lived, maybe Xanti—” And then her voice trailed off. “No matter,” she said briskly after a moment. “Xanti is who he is. But you—you will find her, Christo,” she assured him, her voice strong again. “Or I will find her for you.”

Since he’d turned thirty, two years ago, she’d been offering to do that regularly.

“Não é necessário,” he assured her again now.

“Alicia, she would be good for you. She is going to be a lawyer, too,” his grandmother went on as if she hadn’t heard. “So you will have something to talk about.”

Christo let her talk. He didn’t discourage her ever. He’d tried that, but it made her despondent and led to despairing comments like, “What have I done wrong? It’s not just your father who can’t settle down. Now you, too!”

“You want to meet her?” his grandmother asked hopefully.

Not really. “I’m busy,” Christo said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back to Brazil.” He was in no hurry to go down for a visit if Avó was planning to set him up with dates when he did.

“Sim, I know.” She sounded sad now. “It has been a year.”

“I’ll get there, I promise.”

“As Xanti promises.”

He heard a weary resignation in her tone. Christo’s jaw tightened. “Yes, but I keep mine,” he reminded her.

“I know you do.” Her voice was gentle. “So you will come.”

“I will,” Christo said firmly. “Before Christmas. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks and we can talk about it.”

“Of course we can. You are my favorite grandson.” It was what she always said.

“I’m your only grandson,” he reminded her with a grin.

“That is so,” she agreed. “I love you, my Christo.”

“You, too. Tchau, ‘Vó. Beijos.”

He hung up, slumped in his chair and tipped his head back. Now visions of his doting grandmother overlaid those of Natalie in his mind. Avó would like Natalie. Natalie would like his grandmother as well.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

CHAPTER THREE

THERE were no hot looks from Christo on Monday morning. No glances that lingered. No politeness even.

Well, Natalie supposed he was polite enough. But he was absolutely businesslike, curt and remote every time he spoke to her. The intense awareness she’d felt on Friday was more like a determined deep freeze today. He didn’t even meet her eyes, but looked out the window all the time he was giving her instructions.

She remembered her mother saying more than once, “Christo is such a pleasure to work for. He’s always so even-tempered.”

Even-tempered, as in his range of emotions went from stern to dour? He smiled enough at his clients. But he scarcely looked at her.

He wouldn’t even take the time after his nine-thirty appointment left to come and look at a scan of a handwritten document she had up on the computer screen.

“You can figure it out,” he said curtly and stayed at his desk, not looking up as he flipped through papers and sorted them into folders. Natalie knew he had two pre-trial conferences in L.A. in the afternoon. She supposed he was preoccupied with them.

He saw two more clients, then came out of his office shortly before one. “I won’t be back until late.” He was shrugging into his suit coat and his tie was once more neatly knotted, his hair just combed.

“Anything else I should do while you’re gone?” Natalie asked.

“Take a lunch break.”

She blinked.

“You didn’t on Friday. You went out and grabbed sandwiches.” It sounded more like an accusation than a comment. “So today, go eat. I won’t be back until late,” he went on. “So I don’t need you bringing me sandwiches.”

So the sandwich had offended him, had it? Why? Had it made him think she was making another bid for attention? As if! She had simply done what she knew her mother would have done.

But she didn’t say that. She gave a light shrug, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other to her. It didn’t. It really didn’t.

Christo opened the door, then looked back over his shoulder. “You don’t need to stay late, either.”

Natalie didn’t even deign to reply to that.

She would stay late if she had work to finish. If she didn’t, she’d leave. And he could take his handsome face and his bloodymindedness and go stuff them both where they’d do some good.

“Whatever you say, boss,” she muttered. But he was gone and didn’t hear her.

Just as well. She finished the letter she was working on, then at quarter past one, took her lunch break, as ordered. She didn’t leave the office, but ate her tuna fish sandwich sitting at her mother’s desk. She did, however, spend the time catching up on her own work for Rent-a-Wife.

Sophy had done the scheduling this week, but Natalie still had the billing to do. If Mr. Stickler Savas wanted everything in businesslike boxes from here on out, that was fine with her. She’d do her work now and start back on his after lunch.

Her brother Dan called to ask if she would like his daughter Jamii to come for the weekend. “Kelly and I got invited to visit a high-school friend of hers in Sausalito. They live on a houseboat. We thought it would be cool. But if you’d rather not…”

“No, I’d like it,” Natalie said. Her eight-year-old niece would be a welcome distraction from the man who was currently occupying most every waking thought—to no avail.

“Great!” Dan was delighted. “We’ll drop her off after work on Friday and pick her up before dinner on Sunday. You can come out to dinner with us.”

“Sounds good.”

“If Kelly has anything she wants to add, I’ll have her call you.”

He rang off and, after a quick glance at her watch that showed she still had ten minutes of Rent-a-Wife time, she went back to work.

Immediately the office phone rang.

She could have let the answering machine get it, she thought grimly even as she reached to pick it up. But however annoying Christo was being, she couldn’t inconvenience his clients that way.

“Savas Law Office.”

“Thank God you’re there. I need you to bring me a folder.”

No question who it was. Natalie nearly choked on her tuna-fish.

“It’s in my office. It has to be,” he went on. “I spent an hour Saturday morning making sure I had all of it in one place after those temps screwed things up.” He sounded as though he wanted to strangle someone. So much for Mr. Cool-and-Remote.

“Which folder?”

“Eamon Duffy’s. His is the second of the two conferences I have this afternoon. And his original birth certificate, the custody agreement and the divorce decree aren’t here.”

“Can’t the judge just pull them up on the computer?”

“They’re from out of state. I don’t know where the hell they are! Did you misfile them?”

“Would I know if I had?” Natalie countered acerbically.

“Sorry,” he muttered. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded at the end of his rope.

“I’ll look,” Natalie was already heading into his office.

“You’ll have to tear the place apart.”

“Not likely,” Natalie said, seeing them on the tabletop under the mirror where he’d probably set them when he’d straightened his tie and combed his hair. “Where are you?”

“You found them?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

He gave her the address and directions to the court building. He was waiting when she got there and took the folder gratefully. He even looked at her. And it was back—the electricity. She could feel it. It was almost a relief—as if the world had righted itself.

“Need anything else?” she asked, her tone gently mocking, when she handed it to him. “A sandwich perhaps?”

His mouth twisted wryly.

She shrugged and was turning to leave when his voice halted her.

“Natalie.”

She glanced back, met his gaze. Oh, God, yes, you could light the whole city of Los Angeles with the electricity now. “Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

Some things, Natalie decided, were just not a good idea.

One of them had been agreeing to work for Christo. Not that she didn’t enjoy it. She did. Too much. She liked the work, liked interacting with many of his clients, liked the variety and the challenge.

Liked being able to look up or across the room and see Christo himself.

That she probably relished more than anything else. But it wasn’t the salutary experience she’d hoped it would be—or at least not salutary in the way she’d hoped. It wasn’t helping her get over him at all. In fact, by Wednesday, her last day in the office, she knew she needed to get out.

It wasn’t that she was afraid she would disgrace herself again. It was how badly she wanted to.

Well, not really to disgrace herself. But she did want Christo Savas with a deep, profound, gut-level desire unlike any she’d ever known. And she shouldn’t.

It was pathetic. She was pathetic, and she knew it.

“Get over it,” she told herself. “You’ve been down this road before.”

So she tried. But she kept looking up to feast her eyes on him every time he came into the reception area. She welcomed every opportunity to go into his office when he was there.

She found herself memorizing the way his brows drew together when he was studying an argument and how he tapped his pen against his teeth when he was reading. She had an image in her mind of the way he always tilted his head and listened so intently when one of his clients was speaking, and how he always crouched down so he was on eye level with the children as he was doing now with eight-year-old Derek Hartman who was showing Christo baseball cards instead of talking about his parents’ divorce.

She wondered what he’d be like with children of his own. And the vision of Christo with little green-eyed boys and dark-haired girls pierced so sharply that she had to catch her breath.

“Don’t,” she said sharply.

Christo, just straightening up to take Derek into the conference room, looked around at her. “Did you say something?”

“No—” her cheeks were burning “—I just—no. Never mind. Made a mistake.” She waved in the general direction of the letter she was supposed to be typing. “Just…muttering.”

He gave her an odd look, then shrugged. “What are you doing tonight?”

Her gaze jerked up. Her heart kicked over. “What?”

“I’ve got the shelves ready. Can I come up and put them in?”

“Oh.” Deflated and annoyed at feeling deflated, she shrugged. “Sure. Of course.”

He knocked. And knocked again.

She didn’t answer the door.

It was just past seven. He didn’t know what time she’d left the office because he’d been on a conference call between five and six. When he’d finished, though, and come out of his office, she was already gone.

Her car was in the garage. So she should be home. Though, he supposed, she could have walked up to the shops on Manhattan Avenue.

Or she might be on a date.

He knocked again. Louder. “Natalie!”

No answer. He hadn’t seen anyone come and pick her up. But then, he hadn’t spent the last hour watching her door, had he? He had better things to do. Besides, she’d told him he could come tonight.

But she hadn’t said she’d be here, he reminded himself.

Well, fine. She knew he had a key. He’d let himself in. He went back home and got it, then when one last knock got no reply, he opened the door and went in.

The apartment might be Laura’s, but it had Natalie’s mark on it now. That was her laundry folded in neat piles on the kitchen table. Her colorful T-shirts and scoop-necked tops, her shorts and capris, her skimpy equally colorful underwear.

He didn’t need to be thinking about Natalie’s underwear. He still remembered the pink camisole top she’d worn the night he’d found her in his bed. Still—

He shoved the memory away and began hauling in the shelves. Herbie, ever curious, followed him, wove between his feet, tripping him and meowing at the same time.

“Didn’t she feed you?” Christo asked him.

But he could see that Herbie still had a bit of food in his bowl. She’d obviously been home. And then he saw her open day planner by the coffeemaker. In Natalie’s handwriting, it said, Scott 6:30.

So—his jaw tightened—a date, after all.

No matter. He could work faster without her interference. He had plenty of interference with Herbie before the cat got bored and decided Christo wasn’t going to provide any food. Then Herbie curled up beside Natalie’s CDs on the cabinet under the window, and Christo began putting the bookcases together.

He liked working with his hands, liked the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, liked fitting things together and making something useful. Doing that was a good counterpoint to the thinking he had to do for his legal work. Often as he worked, his mind did the same, exploring possibilities, considering options, framing and reframing arguments, asking himself questions.

Like, who the hell was Scott?

He put on the wood glue and fitted the back to the side.

And why hadn’t she ever mentioned him?

He was meticulous with his work, drilling and gluing and countersinking the screws. It was the sort of work that usually settled his mind. All he could think right now was he could have used another pair of hands.

It was past nine when Natalie finally appeared. “Oh,” she said when she pushed open the door and found him kneeling in the living room as he put the blind screws into the back of the first bookcase. “You’re still here.”

“Imagine that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said sharply. “Give me a hand here. Unless you’re worried about getting your clothes dirty.”

She wasn’t wearing the gray skirt and blazer with the black blouse she’d worn to the office. Not dressing for success tonight, then. She had on a casual flowered skirt in a sort of batik print with a rust-colored top that brought out the red in her hair. Probably the way Scott preferred it.

She hesitated. “I will. But let me change,” she said. “I only have so many work clothes.”

Christo’s eyes widened. “Work?”

“I went to dinner with a new client tonight.”

Scott at six-thirty was a client? “Dressed like that?”

She blinked in surprise, then realized what he expected to see in the way of work clothes. “I’m not a lawyer,” she reminded him.

His teeth set. He studied her clothing. “And that’s what wives wear?”

She shrugged. “More or less. Less tailored than lawyers. More casual and approachable, but still businesslike.”

“Just,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Get changed and come give me a hand here.”

It should have been easier with the two of them working. It wasn’t.

The second pair of hands was helpful. But the way they bumped into each other was not.

Nor was the faceful of her hair he seemed to get every time he moved close. Damn it, Natalie! But he didn’t say it. Just breathed it in. Breathed the scent of her—and felt that plaguing desire grow.

It made him want to do more than brush an arm against her. It made him want to reach out and pull her into his arms.

She shifted to get a better grip on the bookcase as they were moving it and her breasts brushed against his arm.

His breath hissed between his teeth. “Damn it. I said move.” He grunted.

“I am.”

“Not that way!” She turned and he got her hair in his face again. “Are you trying to drive me nuts?”

Her shoulders stiffened. She looked at him, confused. “Drive you nuts?”

His jaw worked. “All that shifting, twisting, turning—”

“I was trying to help! You said to move.”

“To move. Not rub against me!”

Her mouth formed an astonished O. Then it twitched shut and he saw a sudden twinkle in her eye. “Am I threatening your virtue, Mr. Savas?” she asked mockingly. Then she added more seriously, “I didn’t think I could.”

He gritted his teeth. “Think again.”

Natalie blinked. “You’re kidding.” She sounded genuinely surprised.

He supposed he should be glad, happy that she hadn’t noticed. But all he could do was glare at her. “What? You think I’m immune?”

“You certainly were last time!”

“The hell I was!”

She stared at him, shocked. “You sent me away.”

“You were a kid!”

“I was twenty-two!”

“Too young for me. Too innocent,” he added pointedly. “And you worked with me.”

“Not when I came here. I had finished at Ross and Hoy earlier that week. I know the rules. I know about impropriety.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about impropriety,” he told her flatly. “And if I had taken you up on your offer, that wouldn’t have been the end of it. Would it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You would have wanted to get married.”

“Married?” There was a hectic flush on her cheeks.

“You would have.” He flung the accusation at her. It was no secret. She’d been that kind of girl. “If I’d slept with you—had sex with you—” he made it as blunt as he could “—you wouldn’t have been willing just to walk away, would you?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t need to say them. He already knew.

“No, you wouldn’t. You’d have wanted a relationship. You and me. Happily ever after. Married.” He spat the word at her, daring her to dispute it.

Natalie ran her tongue over her lips, still silent, her eyes spearing him.

He gritted his teeth. “You wouldn’t have wanted a one-night fling, Natalie. You’d have wanted it all.”

“Yes, I would have,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “What’s wrong with that?”

Christo felt instantly justified. “It’s foolishness. It creates false expectations. It does more harm than good.”

“Does it?” She didn’t sound convinced.

“Damn it, yes, it does! Look at your parents! Look at mine. You don’t know them,” he said, “but take it from me, they were a disaster together.”

“I’m sorry.”

He didn’t want her sorrow. Or her pity. Or anything else. The only thing he wanted, heaven help him, was her.

He shook his head, turned away. And damned if she didn’t put a hand on his arm. He jerked away. “Don’t.”

But she persisted, wrapped her fingers around his forearm, nails digging lightly into his flesh as she tugged him around to make him look at her. “Christo.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

It was that single quiet insistent word that undermined his resolve. He turned toward her, anguished. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re going to be sorry.”

Mutely she shook her head, looking up at him, eyes brimming with emotion. “I appreciate what you did three years ago.” She offered him a ghost of a smile. “Now that I know why you did it. But I’m not the girl I was then. You don’t have to protect me anymore, Christo.”

His jaw tightened. “Right. So you’re going to protect yourself?” He didn’t see how.

She shrugged. “I’m a big girl. I’m a grown-up. I was grown up then, but foolish perhaps. Maybe I still am,” she acknowledged. “But that’s my problem, not yours.” Her hand slid up his arm, touched his cheek.

And damn it, he couldn’t help turning his face so that his lips touched her palm. He shut his eyes and took a desperate breath. He felt as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the slightest movement capable of blowing him right over.

“Christo.” Her voice was soft, close enough that he could feel the words on his skin. Then closer still. Her lips traced his jawline.

Christo had as much willpower as the next man. More than most, probably. But there were limits. He’d met his.

And he couldn’t fight it any longer. His arms wrapped around her. His own lips sought her mouth, took it in a desperate move, one his body had been wanting to make for days. One his mind could no longer resist.

Maybe he’d have had a burst of sanity—if she’d panicked, if she’d shown the slightest resistance, if she hadn’t slid her arms around him and held him tight, if he hadn’t felt her heart thunder in rhythm with his own, if her mouth hadn’t been as eager as his.

But she was as eager as he was. And as they kissed, as his hands roamed her back, he wondered how he had resisted temptation so long.

The feel of her hands on him was sweet torture. Fingers slipped under his shirt and walked up his spine. He arched his back and felt the exquisite pressure of his erection pressing against her belly.

Natalie felt it, too. Had to. Had to know how much he wanted her.

“Nat.” His voice was low and thick with his need for her. Saying her name was as much of a warning as he was capable of. That and stillness. One last moment of gripping her upper arms, holding her motionless. He felt a shudder run through him—the last of his willpower gone.

Her lips touched his. “Love me, Christo.”

It wasn’t love. He wanted to say that to her, but the words wouldn’t come.

Only the kisses came. Hungry desperate kisses. The taste of her was making him crazy. He steered her toward the sofa, needed to hold her, to lie with her.

“Not here,” she whispered. And taking his hand, she led the way into the small guest room where she was staying. The bed was only a single size. It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t need more.

She had dropped the clothes she’d worn to her meeting on the bed when she’d changed. Now she scooped them off and put them on the chair. Then she turned back to him with a smile and drew him down with her, ran her hands up under his shirt, her fingers cool on his heated flesh.

And Christo touched her with a reverence that surprised him. Sex was recreation. It was meeting physical needs. But holding Natalie in his arms didn’t feel like recreation. And sliding his hands up her sides and cupping her breasts in his hands didn’t feel like the same simple assuaging of physical needs.

He was learning the joy of touching her. Watching her face to see the expressions that passed over it. As he lay down beside her and wrapped her in his arms, she moved closer so that their knees touched, their hips bumped, her lips grazed the line of his jaw and chin. Christo nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply now, allowing himself to relish the scent of it—of her.

Minutes ago he’d resisted, fought off the desire it provoked, tried in vain to remain indifferent to her.

But that was then. And now?

Now he didn’t think. He didn’t analyze. He didn’t argue pro or con. He simply savored. And wanted more.

He took it, too, because Natalie encouraged him. She made soft sounds that made his heart beat faster, made him want to hear more, feel more, taste more.

He stroked her silken skin beneath her shirt. It was so smooth, so warm, it seemed to encourage the glide of his fingers. Then he shoved himself up to kneel beside her and draw her shirt up. He tugged it over her head, then bent to press his lips to her collarbone, and nibble his way down between her breasts. His hands framed her rib cage and he kissed his way down to her navel.

“Christo!” Her eyes were dark and wide, her lips formed a soft O at his touch. And then she skimmed his shirt over his head as well and rose to kiss his chest and run her fingers over his pectoral muscles.

It was a dance of fingers and lips. Touches and nibbles, light friction, gentle stroking. And every one stoked the fire building within.

He dispensed with her bra then knelt between her knees and cupped her breasts in his palms. And she watched him, unblinking, her lower lip caught in her teeth, her breath coming in soft thready whispers.

With his fingers he traced the aureoles around taut nipples, then bent his head and laved each one in turn, making her shiver and shift beneath him. And the look on her face made him as eager for her as she was for him.

He pulled back and hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of her shorts when she lifted her hips, slid them down her legs and tossed them away. Only a scrap of pale-blue cotton and lace covered her now.

“Christo.” She reached for his zip, and with fumbling fingers he yanked it down and shed his jeans, kicking them aside, then peeled off his boxers as well, sucking in his breath as the cool night air coming through the window hit his heated bare flesh.

He would have bared her, too, then, but she reached out a hand and touched him lightly, stroked the length of him, made him clench his teeth and suck in a sharp breath. It hissed through his teeth and she said, “Are you all right?”

“No. I’m going to lose it completely in half a second if you do that again. Don’t. Touch.”

Her eyes widened as she jerked her hand away. “Ever?”

He laughed, a strained laugh, one that revealed to him, if not to her, just how tenuous a grip he had on his control. “No. Just now. I want—I want to take it slow and that’s…not going to happen.”

He skimmed the lacy panties down her legs and then slid trembling fingers back up the length of them, touched her, teased her, probed her gently.

Now Natalie sucked in a breath, too. Her hips shifted. Her fingers clenched on the quilt that covered the bed. And Christo moved between her knees, stroking her now, parting her, finding her as ready for him as he was for her.

Then she was grasping his hips and pulling him down to her, her need as naked as her body as she opened to him.

Naked bodies meant nothing more than pleasure. Naked emotions were something else again. But he couldn’t look away. She mesmerized him, made him ache with the need of her.

He couldn’t turn back now. Couldn’t resist the pull to join his body to hers.

He slid in, took her. Gave himself over to the need that surged within him, and tried to give Natalie the satisfaction that she was giving him.

She was so hot, so tight. So right.

He wanted the feeling to last forever. Wanted desperately to slow it down, hang onto it, to let it build and ease and build again, to make it grow as well inside her.

But Natalie thwarted his best intentions with intentions of her own. She moved against him, rocked her hips, drew him deeper, arched her back and clenched around him.

“Now,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his buttocks, her heels hard against the backs of his thighs. They moved together, eager and desperate until together they tipped over the edge into oblivion.

Spent, shattered, Christo could barely lift his head. His heart thundered. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, to her lips, then pulled back enough to look down at her, to feel sanity returning, but what else he wasn’t sure.

Natalie stared up at him, speechless, her gaze unreadable.

And Christo felt a stab of anxiety. Of doubt. He stroked her cheek with still-trembling fingers. “Are you all right?”

Because she didn’t look all right. She looked stunned.

And then, like morning light, a smile dawned. Slowly at first, touching her lips, then suffusing her whole face. She loosed her hands that were locked around his back and brought them up to frame his face.

“I don’t think all right really covers it,” she said. And then she raised up to press her lips to his.

They loved again that night.

Slow and easy the second time, as they let their touches linger, she and Christo learned each other’s bodies, each other’s needs, each other’s desires. But slow and easy was no less shattering than fast and desperate.

Nor was lying in the narrow bed and watching Christo sleep afterwards.

“I’ll go,” he’d said only moments after they’d spent themselves the last time. He was lying on his side, his body curved around hers, his arm slung possessively across her waist, holding her against him. And she had felt the whisper of his words against her ear.

She hadn’t moved then. She’d simply held onto the moment, reliving the night from its unpromising beginning to this, marveling at the change.

Who’d have thought?

After a while she realized that he hadn’t moved. His hold on her hand had loosened, his breathing had slowed. He was sleeping.

With exquisite care and deliberation, Natalie shifted her body. There wasn’t much room. She hugged the edge of the bed as she rolled onto her back, still in his embrace, then turned just enough to face him, wanting to see him, to study his features in the dim light that spilled in through the window from the street.

She had never seen Christo unguarded before. Never seen him without armor. She didn’t mean clothes, though of course his lack of them allowed her to learn that part of him as well. It could have made him vulnerable.

But it didn’t. Christo had a strong body, lean but well-muscled, with hard ropy arms, a flat abdomen, strong thighs. He didn’t look like a man who went to meetings and wrote arguments all day. It reminded her that that was only a part of who he was.

He was also the man who slept next to her, his features softened slightly by sleep. His jaw was relaxed now, his lips slightly parted. The hard, often wary green eyes were hidden beneath long-lashed lids. He looked gentler. A bit more like the man she’d dreamed of finding beneath the hard tough shell the world saw.

She’d found that man tonight. Against all odds, he’d finally listened to what she’d said.

It was her problem she loved him. Her foolishness, perhaps. She knew the gentleness and vulnerability wouldn’t last. She knew the armor, gone now, would come back in the strong light of day.