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cotton and ancient flannel?
    She poured herself a nice glass of Beaujolais, just because.   She didn’t like to drink alone, but
there were times when it was the best thing to do.   She turned her stereo on, to a mix of French and English
music, Charles Aznavour and Marc Lavoine ,
Jacques Brel and Florent Pagny .   And of
course Piaf.  
    And still she felt it. That clawing, aching feeling, the need to have
sex, to have it right now.   She
headed for her phone, desperate to hear the sound of Drake’s voice.   Desperate to have him there.
    And then she put down the phone without dialing.   She wanted him to blot out all the
confusing, overwhelming, arousing feelings that were swamping her.   But she knew it wasn’t Drake she
wanted.
    The flannel had been a bad idea after all.   The familiar softness, instead of soothing her, aroused her,
the touch on her skin more erotic than silk.
    She moved around the apartment, lighting the candles she kept but
seldom used.   She felt hot, and she
went over to the doors leading to the narrow balcony, pushing them open to wet
night air.
    She leaned over the iron railing, looking out into the night.   She loved Paris when it rained, the
smell of the water on the sidewalks and buildings, the soft wind that usually
came with it.   Paris had brought
her senses alive.   It was no one’s
fault that tonight, for some unknown reason, they were suddenly overloaded.
    She turned away, pouring herself another glass of wine. She’d already
turned off the electric lights, and she moved to the high-backed wing chair
she’d found at an antique store.   There was no hurry.   She
could sit here and listen to the rain and drink her wine.   The night was hers.
    She might have drifted off to sleep.   The wind picked up, and the candles fluttered in the breeze,
as the heavy rain followed, beating against her windows.   It was coming in the open balcony, and
a fine spray covered her.   She
closed her eyes, reveling in it, awash in the sheer sensuality of it.
    And when she opened them he stood there, on the narrow little
balcony.   He was soaking wet, the
rain running down his stark, beautiful face in rivulets, plastering his white
shirt to his chest.   He was there,
as she somehow knew he would be.
    He was everything she hungered for, everything that was wrong. She
looked into his eyes, and her body convulsed in a tiny, shocking climax.
    She was in deep trouble.

 
 
    CHAPTER FOUR

 
    “What the hell are you doing here?”   she demanded when she managed to catch her breath.
    He didn’t move in out of the rain, he simply let it pound down over
him, oblivious to it as he leaned back against the railing.   He didn’t speak, and she was suddenly,
irrationally afraid.   She had no
fear that he would hurt her, though it wasn’t as if he seemed harmless.   He was a very dangerous man indeed
– she instinctively knew that, for all his indolent playboy facade.
    It was something else, something deeper, something infinitely more
troubling.   She managed to surge to
her feet, ignoring her shaky legs, moving to shut the doors to the balcony,
locking danger out in the storm.
    He caught her wrist in one strong hand, halting her, and she stared up
at him, the touch of his skin a shock.   In the cold spring air he was hot, burning.
    He pulled her, and she didn’t fight him.   Pulled her out onto that narrow sliver of a balcony, out
into the driving rain, and kissed her, his mouth hot and heavy on hers, wet,
demanding.   It was a lover’s kiss.
The kiss of man who was ready to climax, and her hands, the ones that should
have pushed him away, clutched his shoulders, holding on, as she surrendered to
him.
    Surrender.   There was no
other word for it.   His tongue was
inside her mouth, pushing, demanding a response.   This was no gentle seduction, this was a claiming, dark and
carnal, and she gave in, willingly, feeling the rain beat down on both of them
with the night air of Paris all