by Anne Stuart
“I could scream,” she suggested fiercely, not about to be cajoled, despite the fact that Blackheart was busy undoing the rest of the buttons on her black silk jumpsuit.
“You already did. No one heard you, no one came to your rescue.”
“They might if I tried it again.”
He’d pushed the clothing down from her shoulders, temporarily imprisoning her arms. “With our luck they might. Don’t scream.” He covered his mouth with hers.
It took her less than five seconds to help him rid her of the rest of the jumpsuit and another seven seconds to take off his clothes. Then they were naked in the huge Renaissance bed, lost in pleasure, in passion, in love. He was hard and strong and pulsing within her, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tightly, rising, falling with him, lost and floating through heights that knew no limits.
When it was over he collapsed on top of her, hot and sweating as she was, panting, heart racing in tune with her own. It was a long moment before either of them spoke, and when Blackheart did, it was disarmingly prosaic. “This isn’t really a mattress we’re lying on, is it?”
“I don’t think so. Cardboard boxes, maybe. You’re just lucky we didn’t land on wood,” she said sleepily, nuzzling his damp hair.
“It was only a four-foot drop at that point. We would have ended up with a few bruises.”
“I think you gave me a few, anyway,” she murmured. “I do, you know.”
“Do what?” He knew the answer as well as she did, but was waiting to hear the words.
“Do trust you. I was wrong to think you’d lie to me. I trust you almost as much as I love you.”
“Almost as much?” he echoed.
“Nobody could feel anything as much as the love I feel for you,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“In that case, maybe you’d better marry me, after all. You don’t seem inclined to give up the ring, and I hate to tell you this, but I didn’t bring any protection tonight, either. I really didn’t expect we’d end up like this. I don’t suppose you did anything . . . ?”
“Nope. I guess you’re going to have to make an honest woman of me,” she said with a sleepy smile.
“When?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“It’ll take three days to get the license. Are you going to change your mind?”
“No. Three days will be fine. Somewhere along the way I figured something out.”
“What was that?”
“You’re right. It wasn’t you I didn’t trust. It was me. I would get so lost whenever I was with you. I felt I was disappearing. It frightened me.”
“And what changed your mind?”
“Oh, I didn’t change my mind. I do tend to disappear when I’m with you. Ferris Byrd and Francesca Berdahofski cease to exist. What I didn’t realize is that instead of being me alone, I become joined with you. The two of us are one, stronger than me alone. I don’t lose something, I gain it. So I don’t have to be so frightened.”
“Very wise,” he murmured, his mouth brushing hers. “Does that mean we get a happy ending?”
She grinned up at him. “You bet, Blackheart. Happily ever after.”
Epilogue
Mr. and Mrs. Smith
(RKO 1941)
“DON’T TELL ME,” said Stephen McNab. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Of course you do,” his wife of eight months declared. “You want my brother to be happy.”
“Not particularly,” he muttered. “However, I’ve gotten rather fond of Francesca during the last few months. I suppose for her sake I won’t begrudge him.”
“Noble of you,” Dany McNab said.
“Yes, isn’t it? So tell me. Mother and child safe, I suppose? Father recovering from the trauma of it all?”
“Don’t be so snotty. You’ll probably be going through it before too long yourself.”
Momentarily distracted, Stephen pulled his wife onto his lap and indulged in a few brief minutes of passionate necking. “All right,” he said finally. “Tell me the details—I know you won’t be able to concentrate on more important things until you do.”
“Francesca had a baby girl, Catherine Emilie, with lots of dark hair and greeny-blue eyes. She weighed eight pounds even, Blackheart was with them, and everyone is very happy. You’re an uncle, Stephen.”
“Great,” he said morosely. “She’s not going to grow up to be a cat burglar, is she? I know bad blood when I see it.”
Dany grinned. “Who knows? You’ll have to provide a sterling example for her.”
“Catherine Emilie,” Stephen murmured, trying it out. “What are they going to call her?”
“What do you think?” Dany murmured. “They’re going to call her Cat.”
The End
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About the Author
Anne Stuart is currently celebrating forty years as a published novelist. She has won every major award in the romance field and appeared on the NYT Bestseller List, Publisher’s Weekly, and USA Today. Anne Stuart currently lives in northern Vermont.
