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When they were finally spent, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. He was still inside her, and he liked the feeling. He held her face between his hands and kissed her.

"Claire, you are wonderful," he whispered. His heart was finally slowing down, and he could feel hers against his chest.

She looked at him, her eyes gleaming in the firelight. "You wouldn't let me do anything," she said softly. "Everything was for me."

He smiled. "I'm not complaining." He kissed her again. She was eminently kissable, he decided. He would kiss her often.

She didn't answer him, but it didn't worry Nick. He knew he'd given her great pleasure tonight, and he had certainly enjoyed making love to her. His smiled widened. And perhaps they'd made a baby. He really didn't need any more than that for himself. And even if it took awhile for Claire to conceive, that was all right, for he would enjoy making love to her often. In fact, he might start again right now.

For Claire, the four days she and Nick spent at the St. Maurice were a carousel of sights and sounds, colors and scents. San Francisco was everything she had ever expected it to be. They did all the standard tourist things: Rode the cable cars from one end to another as they laughed and huddled together in the chill wind; climbed the hilly streets and were gasping for breath by the time they reached the top of the steep hills. Ambled through Fisherman's Wharf while they sampled the shrimp and clam chowder and crab cocktails sold at the open-air stands. Took the bay cruise past Alcatraz and Sausalito to Tiburon, and Claire's nose got sun-burned. Walked the length of Grant Avenue—packed with hundreds of Chinese, both old and young—where Nick bought her a beautiful lapis bracelet and matching earrings and a fat little jade Buddha Claire instantly loved.

One evening Nick took her to the Far East Cafe, and Claire felt as if she were in the middle of a 1940s Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet movie. Their dapper Chinese waiter showed them into a private dining booth and drew the curtain, closing them in. They laughed together as Claire remarked that any minute she expected someone to slither into their booth with a secret message.

They strolled through Golden Gate Park and the Japanese Tea Garden, where Claire's senses were assaulted with the many colors and varieties of flowers; toured the Presidio; and spent one fascinating afternoon at the Palace of Fine Arts.

They sat on the wharf and ate sourdough rolls stuffed with spicy sausage and tangy mustard from the Boudin Bakery. They walked through throngs of tourists and gorged on creamy chocolate from Ghiardelli Square. They explored the North Beach area and chose flaky, rich cannoli from one of the many Italian bakeries.

But their most memorable evening was their last in the city. As they finished their preparations for the evening, Claire thought Nick looked impossibly handsome in his dark suit and paisley tie. And she felt impossibly sophisticated in her black silk cocktail suit—an outfit Natalie had insisted she buy one day when they'd gone shopping together. She had just finished her makeup and was dabbing scent behind her ears when Nick walked up behind her, smiling.

Their eyes met in the mirror, and something about the way he was looking at her caused Claire's breath to catch. She turned around slowly and he handed her a flat velvet box.

He smiled at the question in her eyes. "Open it."

Heart thumping, she snapped open the lid and saw the matching diamond necklace, bracelet, and earrings. She stared at them mesmerized. The stones sparkled like thousands of stars against the black satin lining. "Oh, Nick, I don't know what to say."

"Don't say anything." And then he drew her into his arms and kissed her—a long, deep, seductive kiss— and Claire forgot everything except the way she felt about him. She tightened her arms around him, pouring herself into her response. These past few days had meant so much to her. He meant so much to her. And she wanted him to feel the same way.

He was such a skillful lover. He did everything he knew would please her and arouse her. And she loved the attention, she did. But somehow it wasn't enough. Even if he wasn't in love with her, she needed to know she had some effect on his careful control. Just once, she thought, as she slipped her hands into his hair and kissed him passionately, just once, she wanted to make him lose that control and take her—fast and hard and hungry. Right now she could feel his heart racing against hers, and she wondered how he would react if she began undressing him, if she tried to seduce him. Would he forget their dinner reservation? Would he let her be the aggressor?

But she lost her nerve when he firmly disengaged her hands and broke the embrace. He laughed a bit selfconsciously and said, "I've smeared your lipstick."

"I don't care."

"I do. I'm taking you someplace special tonight."

And so Claire, wanting to please him, telling herself to stop wishing for the impossible, repaired her lipstick and put on the diamonds. At first their weight and coolness felt strange, but as she turned from side to side and looked at them, at the way they caught the light and how they glittered against her skin, she decided she could get used to wearing them.

He took her to dinner at the Sheraton Palace Garden Court, and they drank champagne and listened to the string quartet and ate delicate scallops in the glass-roofed dining room. And Nick's eyes were filled with a look of pride.

"You look incredible," he told her as they left the restaurant. "Every man in the room is jealous of me."

And under the pleasure she felt at his obviously sincere compliment, Claire wondered if the pride of ownership was what he felt for her, if it was all he'd ever feel for her.

Later, when they were sipping after dinner drinks at the Top of the Mark and looking out over the spectacular view of the city, Nick leaned close and pressed his lips to her temple. "Let's go back to our room," he whispered.

And that night he made slow, very deliberate love to her, bringing her to the pinnacle of pleasure not once, but several times. And Claire fell asleep in his arms, telling herself it didn't matter that Nick was holding something back, that his lovemaking was as careful and planned as everything else he did.

After San Francisco, they spent four days in a low-slung, glass and cypress house in Monterey. Each morning Claire woke to the view of dazzling blue water and cloudless skies and to the sound of the seals who gathered on the sun-kissed rocks that dotted the shore. Here the tempo of their days changed, and they spent long, lazy days lying in the sun, doing nothing. Every afternoon they took a nap together in the big master bedroom, with the shutters closed against the bright sunlight and the ceiling fan whirring overhead.

And at night Nick devised a special pleasure for her. The house had a hot tub enclosed on the private deck in back and each night after they'd had a leisurely dinner, Nick would pour snifters of brandy for them and lead her onto the deck, where he'd slowly undress her, then himself.

They would slip naked into the steaming water, and Claire's heart would begin to thump and she would feel decadent and incredibly sexy as the water swirled around them, lapping at their bodies. Nick would kiss her for a long time; then, knowing exactly how each touch would make her feel, he would pull her onto his lap, tight up against him, and his hands would slide slowly around, and he would stroke her, finding every sensitive spot, every hidden crevice. Claire, who couldn't fight the weakness and desire he so expertly aroused, would lay her head back and give herself up to the erotic combination of the touch of his hands on her fevered skin and the heat of the water foaming around them and the powerful needs building inside her.

He seemed to delight in taking her as high as he could and keeping her there as long as possible. She would be weak with desire, trembling under his hands and mouth, and still he would withhold himself until she was almost incoherent with wanting him. And then he would take her, bringing her to a shuddering climax. Afterwards, he would stroke her gently until she was quiet. Then he would take her to bed and do it all over again.

She wondered, but was afraid to ask, what he was thinking and feeling. Was all this attention, all this pleasure-giving, a subconscious wish to dominate her so completely she would never have any will of her own? Or were his motives simpler? Did he simply want to make sure she was pregnant before their honeymoon was over?

After Monterey, they went up into the wine country and stayed at a beautiful inn near Calistoga. Claire loved the Napa Valley. She loved the sweet-smelling air and the sunshine and the rows and rows of grapes. She loved the verdant hills and the cloudless sky and the rustic feel to the towns and countryside. And she loved Nick. More and more each day. She felt drunk with her love and drunk with her sensual awareness of herself and her body and all the sensations and feelings Nick had evoked.

One morning, shortly after sunrise, with mist hanging low over the valley like a silvery veil, they took a ride in a hot air balloon. As the balloon floated over the vineyards, Claire's eyes met Nick's, and just for a moment, she saw something that confused her. What was it? she wondered. Tenderness? Sadness? Yearning? What?

But before she could identify it, the emotion, whatever it had been, disappeared, and afterwards, Claire wondered if she'd imagined it.

On the last night before they would return to San Francisco, then fly back to Houston, they had dinner at the inn, sitting in front of the open fireplace, drinking two bottles of wine and eating excellent Chateaubriand. Afterwards, they danced close together to the music of a talented trio of musicians who played old love songs with romantic feeling, and Claire could feel Nick's heart beating heavily against hers.

"Do you know the name of this song?" he murmured.

"It's from
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg."
She hummed along. "I don't remember the exact words, only that they're beautiful. Something about a thousand summers." She smiled softly. "The name of the song is
I Will Wait For You."

He pulled her closer and a tremor tiptoed down Claire's spine. And when the lovely song ended, Nick clasped her firmly around the waist and led her toward the doorway and the elevator that would take them to their room. They were the only people in the elevator, and as soon as the doors slid shut, Nick's mouth covered hers. The kiss was hard and hungry and when the elevator dinged its arrival at the third floor, Claire's heart was filled with a wild, irrational hope. Because she'd seen something in Nick's eyes tonight—something primitive and untamed—something she'd never seen before.

Maybe tonight he would forget his technique. Maybe tonight they would be equal, a man and a woman who wanted each other too much to remember to do everything by the book. Claire hoped with all her heart this was so.

As soon as the door shut behind them, he was reaching behind her to unzip her dress, covering her face with restless kisses. Happiness began to build in Claire, along with the passion he was always able to arouse, as he forgot his finesse and his kisses became more fevered and demanding.

Then, so suddenly it was as if Claire had been doused with cold water, he drew back, almost shaking himself. She could see him slip into his mask of control, as if it were something tangible he could put on, like clothing. His hands lost their roughness, and once again, as he'd done so many times before, he started his slow seduction of her senses.

A sense of futility stole over Claire. Although she was not very experienced when it came to men, she knew instinctively that until Nick opened himself up, shared himself completely, allowed his feelings to rule rather than his brain, there was no hope that he would ever love her the way she wanted him to. The way she loved him.

* * *

Two weeks later, in the middle of a meeting with his division managers, Nick was thinking about Claire. He stirred restlessly, only half hearing the report Ken Boudreaux was making. His fingers toyed with his Cross pen as vivid images of his wife played through his mind. What was wrong with him? he wondered. Ever since they'd returned to Houston, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. To stay away from her. No matter how many times he told himself he would not yield to the desire pounding through him, that he would simply make love to her for one purpose—to make a baby—he knew he was lying to himself. Each time he touched her, his control slipped another notch.

His fingers tightened around the pen. He couldn't afford these feelings. Hadn't counted on them. Didn't want them. Emotions like these disturbed the order of a person's life. Made them do irrational, stupid things. Made them weak. Made them vulnerable.
I won't allow myself to need her.

He would fight this weakness. He would fight his feelings for her. Because, above all, he would not, could not, fall in love with her.

* * *

Something was wrong with Nick. He hadn't said anything, but in the weeks since they'd returned from San Francisco, Claire could sense a difference in him. At first, she'd hoped the difference meant he was falling in love with her, but she was afraid she'd been kidding herself.

He was still kind. Still considerate. Still attentive.

He continued to make love to her almost every night. But there was a wariness about him now, and she wasn't sure what had brought it about. Was he concerned because she wasn't pregnant yet? Was that it?

Something else bothered her, too. Every Saturday afternoon he went out, and he didn't tell her where he was going. That bothered Claire. She knew that under the terms of their marriage, he wasn't obligated to tell her everything, but still, it disturbed her that he was secretive. Because she knew he would be gone, she began visiting her mother on Saturday afternoons and made a point of telling him where she'd be. She thought he would respond in kind. But he never did, just said, "Have a nice visit."

Finally, one Saturday early in August, she confronted him. She was in the sunroom relaxing with a book when he walked in and casually said, "I'm going out for a few hours. I'll see you later."