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“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, continuing with the grim little story, “she had to face her parents eventually. Jack wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and she wouldn’t say who the father was. Everyone assumed it was me anyway.”

He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “But when Kimberley was born, she had all this dark brown hair and dark eyes; it was kind of obvious I wasn
’t the father.”

“Kimberley?”

“She’s a great kid. I see them sometimes when I’m on the west coast. Brenda married a car salesman a couple of years back. He’s a pretty nice guy and good with Kimberley.”

I nodded slowly, finding I couldn
’t dislike Brenda as much as I’d wanted to. Although I’d still have to slap her if I saw her again.

“Well, I
’m glad it worked out for her – in the end.” I paused. “You didn’t tell me what happened to Donna and Johan. They were always kind to me.”

“Shirley
’s stayed in touch with them. I saw them a few times after… Johan retired a couple of years back, and they moved to Phoenix. I heard he was pretty sick – leukemia, I think.”

“I
’m sorry to hear that: they were a nice couple.”

Oh, poor J
ohan. Such a decent man. Poor Donna. Maybe I should write… no, they wouldn’t want to hear from me.

He nodded but didn
’t reply.

“What about that funny little friend of yours – Fido? What was his
real name… um… Alfred? Albert? Arnold! What happened to him?”

Sebastian didn
’t smile, which was never a good sign.

“He enlisted just before me. He joined the
Rakkasans, 187th Infantry. He died eight years ago in Iraq – IED. Poor bastard never stood a chance. He didn’t even make it to twenty.”

“Oh no, I
’m so sorry!”

And I remembered that sweet kid who used to try and flirt with me: now dead. All
those young men gone.

We finished our coff
ees in silence, each lost in the past.

Every time I thought we
’d finished our stroll down memory lane, something else came along to hijack us, tugging us back to our turbulent history. It was like being on an emotional carnival ride – including the concomitant nausea, but seriously lacking the fun.

“Ready to head for Chamonix?
” said Sebastian.

I smiled at him, grateful that he
’d interrupted my musings.

“Yes, ready as I
’ll ever be. Actually though, it’s more comfortable riding on that machine than I thought it would be. I just wish I’d worn something warmer.”

“Put your hands in my pockets this time,” he said. “That will help. And there
’s a shop in Chamonix where we can get you some good gloves.”

“That
’s not necessary.”

“I can buy you some fucking gloves, Caro!” he said
, crossly.

“Fine!” I snapped, matching his irritated tone, “Although I have no idea what
‘fucking gloves’ are: made of latex, I suppose!”

He laughed loudly. “God, I love you, Caro!”

He stopped when he’d realized what he’d said.

“Slip of the tongue,” he mumbled.

I ignored his comment and waited until he mounted the motorcycle, before clambering on behind him.

Gratefully, I pushed my hands into the pockets of his jacket, winding my fingers into the soft leather.

We crossed into France at the quaintly named village of Saint Gingolph. A jejune border guard glanced at our passports, looked again when he realized we were American, sneered a few questions
that Sebastian answered in fluent French – which seemed to annoy the little man even more – then he waved us across.

The road on this side of the lake was more thickly wooded and less inhabited than the northern side. Small farmhouses dotted the hillside and winding roads threaded their way up into the Alps.

“This road leads to Italy,” Sebastian yelled over his shoulder. “How about a quick trip over the border?”

“Two countries in one day is enough!” I shouted back, but the thought that I was just miles from my father
’s homeland tugged oddly at my heart.

Chamonix soon appeared out of the low mist that had settled in the valley. To my left I could see the awe-inspiring presence of Mont Blanc, thick snow capping the summit.

The town itself was still quite empty: the winter skiers long gone, the summer tourists not yet arrived.

The ride through the Alps had been sensation
al, as promised, and Chamonix was lovely: a picture-perfect Alpine town, with an abundance of bijou shops selling everything from skiwear to expensive, designer jewelry.

Sebastian pulled up outside one of the former
, and dragged me inside.

“We
’ll get you some ski gloves to wear,” he said. “Best I can do for now.”

The sales assistant was overly helpful. I couldn
’t decide if that was because she was delighted to have a customer so close to the end of the ski season, or because she got to stare at Sebastian’s ass as he wandered around the shop.

As far as I was concerned, he had a very fine ass and, having been wrapped around it for the last couple of hours, I felt I was in a position to voice an expert opinion.

And then a very erotic image sprang unwelcome to my mind, as I recalled the numerous occasions when I had reason to know Sebastian’s naked ass very well indeed.

I did my best to banish the memory, but I wasn
’t entirely successful. I wondered if all US Marines were in such good shape.

“How about these?” said Sebastian, handing me a pair of black ski gloves.

“Ninety Euros! Are you kidding me? That’s $115! For a pair of gloves!”

“Just t
ry the damn things on, Caro,” Sebastian growled.

“No. That
’s ridiculous. There must be something cheaper.”

“If you don
’t try them on, I’ll just buy them anyway,” he threatened.

“No! It
’s a waste of money.”

He turned to the sales assistant and handed them over. “D
’accord. Je les prends.”

“Wait! Attendez!”

I snatched them back from her and pulled them on over my hands. They fit perfectly.

Damn him!

He grinned at me wickedly.

“You argue too much, Caro.”

“I can’t imagine why,” I said, dryly.

We left the shop with my ridiculously expensive gloves tucked into my jacket pocket. Sebastian looked annoying
ly pleased with himself.

“Shall we find somewhere to have lunch?”

“What, you’re actually asking me, Hunter? As in, seeking my opinion?”

He grinned at me. “Sure!”

“In that case, yes; but only if I treat you – non negotiable.”

“I love it when you tell me what to do, Caro,” he leered at me. “Brings back memories.”

And this time I couldn’t help the blush that rose to my cheeks. I knew
exactly
what he was talking about. Other than Italian, the one thing I had taught Sebastian was how to give me an orgasm. And he had been a
very
good student.

He laughed out loud when he saw my blush. I couldn
’t think of a single comeback. Not one. Not a word. Not a single response, answer, reply, witticism, quip, jest or jibe. I was utterly mute.

God, he was annoying!

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him, kissing my hair lightly.

“Just teasing you, Caro.”

I shuffled away, trying to look offended, but he knew me better and just grinned.

“Do you want to try fondue?” he said, still trying not to laugh.

“Fine,” I muttered, sulkily.

I regained some of my
rumpled poise over lunch.

We both ordered the cheese fondue and were given a basket full of different rolls: foccacia, olive breads, breadsticks; and a fondue made up of mozzarella, dolcelatte and parmesan. It was the perfect winter warmer, especially on a chilly day
in the Spring.

“Mmm, this is good. Have you been here before?”

He nodded nonchalantly. “A couple of times.”

“Ever bring your women here?”

He frowned, and looked irritated. “You make it sound like I had a fucking parade of them.”

“Didn
’t you?”

He threw down his fondue fork angrily.

“What do you want me to say, Caro? I fucked everything I could get my hands on when I realized you weren’t coming back. It was years before I trusted a woman enough to be able to make love to her, and even then...”

He stopped mid sentence, scowling at me.

I’d done it again: forced him to say words that only brought pain to both of us.

“I
’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean…” I looked into his eyes. “It’s none of my business, Sebastian. I apologize.”

And it really wasn
’t. I was the one who had insisted that we couldn’t change the past and here I was, surgically opening old wounds, one by one.

“I
’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to yell at you,” he said, his voice aching with regret.

Then he took a deep breath and shook his head to clear away the anger and recriminations.

We sat silently for several minutes. I searched around for a more neutral topic of conversation.

“How long have you had the motorcycle?”

He leaned back in his chair.

“This one, about two years. But I
’ve had one on and off since I was 19. Bought my first bike as a birthday present to myself. It’s still in Ches’s garage.”

“Really? Well, there
’s another reason for his wife to think you’re leading Ches astray. Or is he the responsible father-type now?”