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valley which looked like it might once have been a river course. Through binoculars, Doring had watched the disgusting scene between Rourke and the woman. And, how appropriate it would be to have this despicable Rourke fellow turn up dead in this love nest with his little Naval officer whore!
    When Herr Haas had insisted on contracting a revenge plot against the American policeman, Inspector Shaw, for the deaths of half of Doring’s commando team, Wilhelm Doring had been against it. He and his four men were more than adequate to the task (He discounted Marie Dreisling completely). But Herr Haas had insisted that Doring not risk the remainder of his unit in an unplanned operation, and that speed of retribution was required. Hence, Nikita and his drug friends.
    But now, having seen Doctor Rourke, Wilhelm Doring felt even worse about at last agreeing to Herr Haas’s plan. These eleven scurvy fellows were easily too many to deal with Fraulein Commander Emma Shaw. Were they enough, however, these street ruffians, thugs, to deal with the almost legendary Herr Doctor John Rourke?
    To have gone with these men would have been madness, however. If they were good, they could succeed on their own. If they were not and he accompanied them, they would succeed only in getting him killed, perhaps.
    So, he waited, Luther Haas lighting a cigarette. They stood together, each watching through night-vision binoculars. Rourke and the woman would be inside the bedroom by now.
    John Rourke’s hands moved over her body, his touch easy, gentle as he slowly removed her clothing.
    At last, she was naked. She thought she should be trembling or something like that. But, instead, she felt safer, happier than she had ever felt before.
    John was stripped to the waist. And he was magnificent. Shoulders almost terrifyingly broad. His arms and his chest veritably rippled with muscles at his slightest movement. Her hands caressed his bare back, powerful, hard. The hair on his chest was more than partially grey. But it was the only bodily sign that he could have been much more than thirty years old, even though she knew that biologically he was closer—one
    side or the other—to forty. His stomach was flat, muscled and hard, too.
    There were no scars on his body and for a moment she was amazed that with all his near-death encounters—just those talked about in the history books—he remained unscathed. But she remembered a property of cryogenic sleep (biology was never one of her strong-points in school). It was discovered that cryogenic sleep had a restorative effect on the human body, curing minor illnesses, even healing the skin as if the body, given time to rest, could repair itself.
    “What are you thinking, Emma?” John almost whispered, bending over the bed, his hands on her again, his hps brushing hers.
    “How good you look and how much I love you,” she whispered back.
    John smiled, kissed her lightly again, then stood up. “Are you sure?”
    “Uh-huh. Never surer of anything in my life. You?”
    “Yes,” he whispered, starting to open his trouser belt.
    “Wait a minute,” she told him. And she knelt up on the bed, her hands going to his waist. “You undressed me. Let me undress you.”
    “If you want,” John said, smiling easily. But there was a far-off look in his eyes, sadness mingled with loneliness. And more than ever, she wanted this to be the best moment in John Rourke’s life, just as she knew that it would be the best moment in hers. She started to undo his belt, her hps touching at his abdomen, at his chest* at his throat, her bare body against his chest, her breasts hot, her nipples feeling so hard she could barely stand it.
    Emma Shaw had told herself in that first moment that she was able to think after he kissed her for the first time that she would be more than foolish to suppose he would be hers for ever, stay with her always.
    But John Rourke was at least a little bit hers now. And she would be bis for as long as he