Listed: Volumes I-VI
Author: Adams, Noelle
Date: 2013-12-31

LISTED

NOELLE ADAMS

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks referenced in this work of fiction: Coke (Coca-Cola), Porsche, Tylenol, Advil, Jeep, Tiffany & Co., and Dom Pérignon.

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

DELETED SCENES

EXCERPT FROM SALVATION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

Emily Brennan felt sick, and it wasn’t from the virus.

She knocked on the door that adjoined her hotel room to Paul’s, fidgeting until she realized what she was doing.

Forcing her body to relax, she told herself she had no reason to be nervous.

She had absolutely nothing to lose.

Yes, this was a crazy idea. Yes, even a couple of weeks ago, she never would have dared to do it. Yes, it meant asking someone for help, when she’d spent most of her life trying to be self-sufficient. And, yes, she was potentially setting herself up for consummate humiliation.

But if this conversation turned out to be an embarrassing nightmare, she had only three months left to live with it.

It was still early, not even seven yet, but she wasn’t surprised when Paul Marino opened the door, already fully dressed in jeans and a charcoal gray t-shirt that matched his eyes. He had dark hair, with classic features and a lean, athletic body. As always, he managed to look cool, sexy, and expensive, even first thing in the morning.

From the state of the desk near the window looking out on the harbor, he’d evidently been up for a while. A few months ago, she never would have pegged him for an early riser.

“Good morning,” he said with a little smile. “You’re up early.”

She hated that gentle expression in his eyes as they rested on her face. He’d never looked at her that way before she’d been diagnosed with this mystery virus, and now he never looked at her in any other way.

She knew what the look meant. He felt sorry for her—because she was going to die.

She didn’t want his pity, although she would use it if she had to.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Yesterday, she’d had an appointment with the last of the viral specialists Paul had found for her—this one in Baltimore. When this doctor’s prognosis was exactly the same as the others, she’d accepted that there wasn’t any hope.

They’d seen what this virus had done to Emily’s aunt, and they knew all the treatments that hadn’t worked, that hadn’t even touched the relentlessly progressive illness. They couldn’t isolate the virus, so there was no hope of developing an anti-viral medication.

No one knew how Emily or her aunt had contracted this virus, but all the doctors agreed it was terminal.

So Emily had stayed awake all night, deciding what to do in her last three months.

She could sink into depression at the brutal injustice of the universe. She could, in desperation, cling to a futile hope for a cure.

Or she could live, for the little time she had left.

She saw room service had brought Paul a cart with coffee, fruit, and pastries, so she went to pour herself a cup of coffee. Before this last month, she’d never stayed anywhere as luxurious as this hotel, but Paul always traveled first class.

They might have grown up in the same South Philly neighborhood, but their lives had always been miles apart. Even before he’d left town for an Ivy League college, Paul hadn’t looked or sounded like he was from the neighborhood.

“How do you feel?” he asked. He’d returned to his seat at the desk.

“Fine.” With the exception of two short-lived, low-grade fevers, she hadn’t had any obvious symptoms.

Her aunt had never had any symptoms except intensifying fevers, and the last fever had killed her.

Emily sat down with her coffee in a chair near Paul, and he turned in her direction, leaning forward with his elbows on the armrests. He obviously could tell she had something to say.

She considered herself fairly brave. Others had even called her tough. She’d grown up mostly taking care of herself, tackling any hurdle that got in her way. She balked, though, at the realization of what she was about to do.

Proposing marriage to a man who didn’t love her, who wasn’t even really her friend, just wasn’t something a girl faced every day.

Instead of getting straight to the point, she stalled for a minute, nodding toward the laptop and piles of papers on the desk. “What are you working on?”

Unlike Emily, Paul was born into money—the son of a department store heiress and an organized-crime boss. Paul hadn’t taken money from his father in ten years, but he still hadn’t worked a day in his life.

“I was looking for another doctor to—”

“No,” Emily interrupted sharply. “We talked about this yesterday. No more doctors. No more specialists. No crazy treatments that will keep me in the hospital and have no chance of working. Aunt Mary had to go through all that, and she was miserable for the last weeks of her life. I’m not going to do it too.”

Emily felt a little queasy at the thought of her aunt, who’d worked for two decades without incident as a security guard before dying in terrible pain from something as seemingly harmless as a virus. She and her aunt hadn’t been that close, but they were family and they’d tried to take care of each other this last year.

Now, Emily had no one left.

Paul’s features twisted slightly, as if he were suppressing an instinct to argue. Instead, he said quietly, “You can’t just give up.”

He wasn’t a quiet man. He could talk his way out of any sort of trouble and into any woman’s bed. She assumed he was restraining his natural charisma because he thought she was too delicate to handle it. It was annoying but not something she could deal with now.

“I’m not giving up.” About this she was sure, so she didn’t waver or hesitate in her response. “I’m making a conscious choice about how to spend my last three months.”

“All right. It’s your choice. So what do you want to do?”

“I want to live.” Despite her attempt at self-possession, her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed over the lump and hoped Paul hadn’t noticed.

Evidently, he had. His handsome face was briefly torn between pity and discomfort.

They’d known each other all their lives from the neighborhood, but Paul was six years older than her, and they’d run in very different circles. He wouldn’t be any more comfortable with this intimate conversation than she was.

If hadn’t needed her to testify against his mob-boss father, who was being brought up on federal charges, then she wouldn’t be more than a brief blip on his radar.

“Of course, you want to live. If you’ll just let me look for more options—”

“There are no options. You’ve done what you can, and I really appreciate it. But I’m not expecting you to save me.”

“I promised to protect you when you refused witness protection. Do you think I’d go back on my word?”

She briefly wondered how Paul Marino—bad-boy prince of their community, who’d spent most of his life playing around, chasing thrills, and getting in trouble—was so utterly serious right now. With her. About her.

Not out of affection, but because he’d decided sometime in the last six months that his father should be in prison.

He needed her to testify. That actually worked in her favor, given what she was about to ask him.

“Yeah, I know that.” She pitched her voice as light and ironic on purpose, since this was another topic that made her uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure what to do with Paul’s somewhat paranoid suspicions regarding his father. Everyone else seemed to understand Vincent Marino better than his own son did. “But you were talking about protecting me from garrote-wielding wiseguys, who might try to off me before I can snitch on your dad.”

“Don’t laugh it off.” He sounded annoyed for the first time that morning. “He might pretend to be civilized, but he’s the same kind of thug his father was. You don’t know him like I do. He’s perfectly capable of—”

“I believe he’s capable of violence, and I have no doubt he’s arranged to have people killed. But only…only soldiers. He’s old-school. He’s not going to kill a teenage girl from the neighborhood. Or his son.”

“I’m not convinced of that.”

She was silent, wondering if Paul, with his privileged life and innate entitlement to anything he desired, really believed his own father was so completely ruthless.

“He burned down your house,” he added.

“When no one was in it.” She made the comment offhand, but she didn’t feel that way. She’d loved the old row house where she’d lived most of her life. There wasn’t anything left to salvage after Marino’s men had burned it down as a warning to keep what she knew about him to herself.

The irony was, if he hadn’t burned down the house, she never would have decided to testify against him. South Philly wasn’t what it used to be, but there was still a lingering community loyalty that Emily would have intuitively fallen back on. She didn’t like to be bullied, though, and her instinct was always to resist any attempt to control her.

Vincent Marino had tried to do both.

“I don’t want to get into this argument again.” She rubbed her face and tried to focus on the matter at hand. “The point is that I was fine with you hiring a bodyguard to follow me around, but you can’t protect me from this. No one can.”

She felt vulnerable again, so she shifted in her seat, distracting herself by scanning the papers on the desk.

She noticed something that struck her as strange. “What is this?” she asked, picking up a legal pad with Paul’s scrawlings on it. “This doesn’t look like research on viral specialists—”

She broke off abruptly when he snatched the pad out of her hand.

“What is that?” she persisted, despite Paul’s annoyed scowl. “Why are you researching biological weapons?”

He tightened his lips, as if he wasn’t going to answer. Then he must have remembered she was dying and must be humored, since his face relaxed and he let out a sigh. “You know my father traffics in drugs and arms—anything with a high profit margin. The weapons he deals in aren’t just guns and missiles. I know he’s been interested in biological weapons for a while, and I was wondering… This virus seems like a strange coincidence, and since your aunt was going to testify against him too and she worked in his research facility…”

Emily gasped. “You can’t be serious. You think he gave us this virus? Paul, that’s totally paranoid. I know he’s a criminal, but he’s not some diabolical mastermind.” Her opinion of Vincent Marino was what the neighborhood’s view had always been, and nothing in her experiences this year had changed it. “Besides, my aunt didn’t have important testimony to give. She was just going to confirm that I was bringing her a snack when I overheard that conversation. She didn’t know anything worth killing over.”

He obviously disagreed and wasn’t happy with her vehement response, but he nobly suppressed his instinct to argue with the sick girl. “I’m not assuming you were given the virus on purpose. Maybe it was accidental contamination.”

“But it doesn’t spread from person-to-person contact, so both she and I would have had to be directly exposed. I don’t see how that could be possible.”

It wasn’t an idea she’d considered before, so her voice was slightly distracted as she thought over the possibility.

After a minute, she concluded it was ridiculous to entertain such unlikely notions, and Paul was just indulging paranoid fantasies. All the doctors agreed that this virus was going to kill her, so she wasn’t going to clutch at vapors of hope.

She was suddenly swallowed up in a surreal haze—as if the elegant room, the broad expanse of harbor-view out the window, and Paul’s tense, attractive face had transformed into an alien landscape, where nothing was normal, nothing was safe.

She couldn’t believe she only had three months to live. She wasn’t even eighteen yet.

But there was still something she could do, accomplish, complete before her life was over.

With that in mind, she said, “Anyway, back to the point. When I said I want to live, I didn’t mean I want to find a miracle cure. I’m not stupid enough to think there’s one out there. I mean, for my last three months, I want to live. Most of my life, I’ve been trying to just scrape by, with no time between work and school to even have any fun. I kept thinking, when I’m finally…” She exhaled, vaguely embarrassed by the confession. She wasn’t in the habit of making herself vulnerable, particularly with Paul Marino. “I kept thinking, when I finally get settled, I could relax and do some of the things I want. I just hadn’t gotten there yet. I don’t want it to be too late. I don’t want to die before I do them.”

From the outside, her life probably looked pretty bleak—with her mother on the street somewhere, in a downward spiral of drug addiction, and her dad pouring himself into his doomed corner store until he finally worked himself into a heart-attack two years ago. But she’d always had a place to live, and she hadn’t been unhappy. She had plenty of friends, she was saving up for college, and she didn’t mind being mostly on her own.

Until she’d accidently overheard a private conversation of Vincent Marino’s, she’d had a perfectly good life.

“I see,” Paul said, his expression softening as if he understood what she was trying to say. “That makes sense. How can I help you?” He had that deep magnetism in his gaze—that made whomever he spoke to feel like he was completely invested in the conversation, like there was a weight to his regard beyond normal social interaction.

She wasn’t surprised so many women were crazy about him. Just by looking at them, he could make them feel like they were the only important person in the world.

She was nervous again now. Her heart raced. If she’d had more than three months to live, she never would have dared to do this.

But what exactly did she have to lose at this point?

So she came out and said it. “You can marry me.”

It was a tribute to his self-possession that Paul reacted with only a blink.

Since she didn’t want him to say no before she explained, she hurried on, “I don’t want to spend my last few months in hospitals. And, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want to spend my last days as a witness in a long, drawn-out, criminal trial.”

Paul stared at her for a few seconds before he glanced away, out at the view of the harbor. “I see.” She could tell he was trying to keep his calm composure.

Like she was a frightened rabbit who might flee at any sudden move.

“I can understand that too,” he continued, looking back at her. “And I won’t object if you decide you can’t testify. It was always your choice, and I appreciate your willingness when circumstances were different.”

“Well,” she said, with an attempt at her old smile, the one everyone said was her best feature, “I was hardly doing it for you. It was that or let your dad bully me. And I’m not saying I won’t testify. I know putting your father in prison is the most important thing to you right now.”

Paul opened his mouth like he would respond, but no sound came out.

“But I hope you’ll acknowledge it’s a sacrifice for me to do it and maybe offer me something in return besides protection.”

“This is where the, uh, marriage comes in?”

She nodded and pulled out of the pocket of her hoodie sweatshirt a wrinkled piece of paper that had been folded three times. “Every year, when I was a kid, I would write a list. People call them ‘bucket lists’ now, but I’d never heard that term. It was just a list of things I wanted to do before I died. My ideas kept changing, so I kept writing new ones. This is the last one I wrote, when I was twelve.”

That gentle look was in Paul’s eyes again—the one she really hated. “Of course. I’m happy to help you do as much on your list as I can, but I can’t believe that marrying me was ever on your list.”

She snorted in tired amusement. “No. You were never on my list, but I did have one thing that was always at the top of every list I ever wrote.” She unfolded the paper, smoothed it out, and handed it to him.

Paul took it and silently read what she knew was at the top of the page, written in large, feminine script. “Get married.”

He closed his eyes briefly and took a slow breath. Then he pinned her with that focused gaze. “Emily, I understand that you always wanted to get married, but I’m just not the best candidate.”

“You’re the only candidate. If I’m going to get married before I die, it has to be to you.”

He reflected for a minute before he spoke. “What about that soccer player friend of yours? Laura’s brother. Chris? Isn’t he the one you always had a crush on?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “How did you know?”

“It was fairly obvious.”

Her cheeks flushed painfully, even at his light tone. “Yes. If it could somehow work out, I’d consider him. But his parents wouldn’t let him, even if he agreed. He’s got another year left in high school, since he didn’t graduate early like me. Plus, he’s traditional. He takes marriage really seriously.”

Paul quirked up one corner of his mouth. “And I don’t?”

Emily slanted him a half-teasing smile, relieved at the return of his sense of humor. “Not to cast aspersions based on your reputation, but it’s pretty clear you’ve been…you’ve been around where women are concerned, so I thought it might not be such a big deal to you. I mean, I figured you’re worldly enough to not think one short marriage has to be a life-altering event. It would just be for three months. Maybe less.”

“But why?” It seemed like he genuinely wanted to know.

She felt a little shaky, but she smiled at him, determined not to let him see that she wasn’t as confident and matter-of-fact as she pretended. “Just to do it. So I can cross it off my list.”

He cleared his throat. “So it’s not…it’s not me. You’re not—”

“Nursing some sort of secret passion for you?” Emily finished for him, embarrassed that he’d even had that thought and determined to eliminate the possibility from his mind completely. “Of course not. You just happen to be available.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “How flattering.”

“I like you. I mean, of course, I like you, Paul. You’re a decent guy, and you’re obviously a great catch in terms of what most women are looking for in a husband. But none of that matters to me at this point.  It’s not about the money at all. I’ll sign a pre-nup or whatever you want. I don’t have anyone to leave money to anyway, and I definitely wouldn’t expect anything from you financially.”

“I know that. I never thought that’s what this is about.” He released a long breath. “You’re only seventeen, Emily.”

“What’s your point?”

“There are laws about marriageable age. In most states, it’s eighteen.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. I even looked it up on the internet. You can get married younger with parental consent, so I figured you could get your lawyer on it, since I don’t have any parents to give consent. I’ll be eighteen next month, and I’m officially emancipated anyway, so maybe that would help sway a judge.”

Paul tightened his lips as he thought. “We could probably get a license with judicial consent, given your situation.”

Emily straightened up. “So you’ll do it?”

“I don’t know. It’s…it feels wrong.”

“It’s not wrong. You wouldn’t be taking advantage of me. In fact, it would be more that I’m taking advantage of you. I really do want to cross this off my list. I know it’s a lot to ask, but it would just be for a couple of months. Unless, maybe, you’re already seeing someone…”

She hadn’t heard about his having a girlfriend, but it certainly wasn’t impossible.

“I’m not seeing anyone right now, but—”

“I know you don’t want to live like a monk for three months or anything.” She stared emphatically at her hands, unable to meet Paul’s eyes. “I’d understand if you need to…to see someone else, as long as….” She trailed off, unable to complete the sentence.

“Emily,” he began, “I wouldn—”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted, wanting to get through with the whole cringe-worthy topic. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s just about being married for me. I wouldn’t expect you to act like a husband.”

“Emily,” Paul said again, reaching out and putting one hand on her shoulder. “You’ve been through a lot in the last couple months, and I’m not sure you’re thinking clearly.”

“Don’t treat me like a child or an idiot. I am thinking clearly. I only have a few months to live, and I want to get through my list.” She picked the list up from the desk, where Paul had placed it. She stared down at the page, hating herself when her eyes blurred over with tears.

She blinked them back and was relieved when her voice didn’t waver. “If you do this for me, and then maybe help me do a few other things on my list—they’re all straightforward like going skydiving and seeing the Pyramids—then I’ll still testify against your father at trial and you can have the satisfaction of helping a dying girl get her last wish.”

Paul sat back in his chair, covering his mouth with his hand and then slowly rubbing his chin. He must have shaved that morning, but his bristles still made a faint scratching sound. He was looking vaguely in her direction, but she knew he wasn’t seeing her.

“Paul, please,” she said, her voice wobbling for the first time. “My aunt was the only family I had left, and now I’ve lost her too. I don’t really have…anything. This list is all I have left.”

It was true. There was a shadow lurking in her mind, threatening to swallow her up at any moment. She wasn’t going to give into it, though, not while there was some way to control the last days of her life.

“Okay.”

“Really?” she asked, brushing a couple of stray tears away. “You’ll do it?”

He nodded and smiled back at her, reaching over to catch her last tear with his thumb and flick it away from her cheek. “I still think it’s not the sanest of plans, and I’ll most likely regret it. But I’ll do it.”

Acting on impulse, she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you,” she said into his shoulder.

Paul seemed a little stiff, like he wasn’t used to getting hugs, but he squeezed her lightly with one arm before he pulled away. “You’re welcome.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“If you’re still able and willing to testify, that’s all I need.”

“So we can get married right away? As soon as possible?”

Paul stood up from his desk. “I’ll start working on it. It’s going to take a little time for my lawyer to get judicial consent for the license, but I’ll see if we can rush it.”

For the last several months, it had felt like Emily’s life—her entire existence—was falling apart, bit by bit.

There wasn’t anything left to fall apart.

In some ways, it was freeing.

Emily’s world wasn’t big, frightening, and confusing anymore. It had narrowed down to a series of tasks she could count on her fingers and toes.

Fourteen items on a sheet of paper. Three months.

One list.

***

Emily could tell her conversation with Paul was about to veer off in an annoying direction.

He’d been nothing but kind and helpful all day, after her proposal that morning—far more than she would have expected from a guy she’d always considered spoiled and entitled.

At the moment, they were in the backseat of a chauffeured car, which was the vehicle Paul had been using since he’d started going around with bodyguards, and they were on their way back from Baltimore.

Once they got into Philadelphia, they had to take a detour to pick up Emily’s last paycheck from the coffee shop where she’d worked for the last two years.

Paul obviously thought it was stupid for her to waste her time picking up the paycheck, since her needs for the next three months wouldn’t even put a dent in the generous trust fund set up for him by his grandfather. But he hadn’t objected.

Evidently, you didn’t tell a dying girl she was being stupid.

His questions now were starting to move in a certain direction, however. A direction Emily didn’t like.

“Are you sure you don’t want to call up your stepmom—”

“Former stepmom,” Emily corrected, trying her best not to sneer.

Paul had agreed to do this incredible favor for her, so she really shouldn’t snap his head off—even though she could tell he was about to be obnoxious.

His lips tightened briefly, but he showed no other reaction to her curtness. “Former stepmom. I know you used to be close to your stepsister. What was her name?”

“Stacie. But I haven’t talked to her since her mom walked out on my dad. That’s been years.”

She would have to talk to Stacie eventually if she wanted to complete her list, but the thought of it hurt too much, so she couldn’t even think about it yet.

“Still,” Paul said, his dark eyebrows pulling together in a way that made two little vertical lines on his forehead, “If they’re as close as you have to family—”

“They’re not family,” she broke in, interrupting him for about the hundredth time that day. “I don’t have any family.”

He shifted in the plush seat and looked slightly tense. “I know. But it seems like you should be around people you know and love right now.”

She suddenly realized she’d never seen him look awkward before the last few days. All her life, she’d only known him as confident to the point of arrogance.

Since he’d been five years old, locals had called him Prince Paul, although always out of his hearing. He despised the appellation and had been in the habit of beating up boys in school who were foolish enough to use the nickname to his face.

She’d had the biggest crush on him when she was thirteen and he’d been back from college for the summer to visit his mother. All the girls in the neighborhood had been crazy about him with his slick cars, sexy rebelliousness, and obsession with extreme sports.

Emily wasn’t feeling particularly charmed at the moment. “And I’m telling you I don’t want to. I don’t want to live in the neighborhood at your mom’s old house. I don’t want to be surrounded by people who know me—all hanging around watching me dwindle away. I told you before. I want to live, not wait around to die.”

She wished she hadn’t said so much, after she’d fallen silent. She wasn’t the kind of person who spilled her guts, and she didn’t know why she’d felt the urge now.

“I guess I can understand that,” Paul said, glancing away, out the window.

“How nice for you—to be so understanding.”  She’d intended to sound sarcastic but not quite so bitter. He’d been really great to her, after all. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help. I’m not normally this grouchy.”

To her surprise, his lips tightened again, but this time with an entirely different emotion.

She stared at him. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he managed to say with impressive sobriety, since he was obviously suppressing amusement.

“What are you laughing at? I’m really not a grouchy person. You think I’m grouchy?” She wracked her mind, trying to think of what she could have done in the past to give him that impression.

He smiled—the heart-stopping grin that made female hearts flutter.

Even Emily’s. Just a little.

“No, you’re not grouchy. In fact, I always wondered how you managed to smile so much, when you didn’t…didn’t always have an easy time of it.” His gray eyes rested on her with something akin to appreciation.

She knew it wasn’t emotional connection. More like she was a novelty that he found rather intriguing.

“But you’ve got to admit,” he continued with that same suppressed smile in his eyes. “You’ve always been kind of prickly with me.”

“I have not,” she objected automatically.

He arched his eyebrows in an ironic challenge. “A few years ago, I went into your dad’s shop to buy a drink, and you gave me a long, heated lecture on cutting in line.”

“Well, you did cut in line!”

“I did not.” He was laughing for real now. “My friends never let me hear the end of it—getting told off by a girl.”

She tried to resist, but her sense of humor was tickled. She let out a rippling laugh. “You deserved it.”

“I promise you I didn’t. I was the next person in line. You just didn’t like me, for some reason.”

She sobered, knowing he was right.

Paul stopped laughing too. “We didn’t know each other well because of the age difference. But I was part of the neighborhood too, and I don’t think I was ever rude to you or your dad. Why didn’t you like me?”

She shrugged. Told him the truth. “All the girls were crazy about you. I didn’t want anyone to think I was one of them.”

For some reason, she’d always been too irrationally proud to let anyone know the boys she’d liked, the guys she’d had crushes on, the men she was attracted to.

As if admitting it would strip her defenses.

“I don’t think anyone would be mistaken on that front.”

She couldn’t help but smile at his wry tone.

Then his expression changed, and she knew he was going to return to the obnoxious topic, as if he’d sensed her softening and was taking advantage of it. “But, seriously, Emily, I’m not sure it’s really healthy for you to isolate yourself from—”

“Oh, just shut up.” She hated how young she sounded even as she said the words. She straightened up and managed to say a bit more lucidly, “You’re on this vendetta against your dad, so I’m not sure you can lecture me about emotional health.”

“It’s not a vendetta.”

“Isn’t it? Aren’t you doing everything you can to get him sent away to prison for life?”

“But not for retribution.”

She raised her eyebrows. “For justice?”

“Why do you sound so dubious?” He looked almost exasperated, as if he’d forgotten he was supposed to treat her with kid gloves.

“You’ve never struck me as someone who would move heaven and earth for some sort of high-blown ideal.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He wasn’t meeting her eyes. He was looking out the car widow past her head, but she suddenly wondered if she’d offended him.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she explained. “But he’s your dad, and a belief in justice isn’t really enough to…to do what you’re doing.”

“Betray him, you mean?”

She swallowed and felt her whole body flush at his frigid tone. About half of their community thought that was exactly what he was doing, and the other half believed Paul was finally stepping up and being a man.

Emily knew it was more complex than either of those things. “I didn’t mean that. I think you’re doing the right thing. But it’s got to be hard—since he’s your dad.”

“Our relationship was never anything like yours with your father.”

“I know.”

“He was never really a father to me.”

“I know.”

Neither said anything for a full minute.

Then Paul added, as if as an afterthought, “I owe it to my mom.”

“Owe what?” Even two months ago, she never would have had the boldness to question Paul Marino so directly. He’d always been a prince—too distant to really touch.

But nothing felt the same now. Not even Paul.

“I owe it to her to make something of my life. To do something…something worthwhile.”

Emily suddenly understood Paul in a way she hadn’t before.

His mother’s death last year had been a kind of turning point for him. He wasn’t in the gossip columns for partying or wild stunts nearly as much as he used to be. He’d gone to the U.S. attorney voluntarily several months ago, after Emily had overheard the conversation, and offered to add his testimony to the case. She hadn’t really thought about it much, since so much had happened to her in the meantime, but he must be trying to turn over a new leaf.

“Oh. I thought it was about winning. Beating him.”

“That too.”

His tone was dry, but she was sure he was speaking the truth.

Everyone had something that was most important to them. Getting justice for his father—for his mother’s sake—was the most important thing to Paul.

Finishing her list—living before she died—was the most important thing to Emily.

***

“Are you crazy?” Chris demanded. “You’ve seriously got to be crazy.”

Chris Mason had been a friend of hers since they’d both been four, and for a while she’d thought she was in love with him, before she’d realized that crush was going nowhere.

She did love him as a friend, but she didn’t want to talk to him right now.

She gave the counter an angry swipe with her rag. When she’d stopped by to pick up her paycheck, Jill had gotten a call about an emergency with her kids, so Emily agreed to watch the shop for an hour. “I’m not crazy,” she gritted out. “This is what I want to do, and he’s helping me.”

“But you’re just seventeen.”

“I’ll be eighteen in four weeks. I’m emancipated. I’ve graduated from high school. I know what I’m doing. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t get married if I want to.”

“But I never thought you had fairytale dreams like that.”

She stiffened. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing bad. It’s just kind of a romantic thing to do—getting married like this. I didn’t think you were like that.”

She used to be like that. When she was a little girl. She’d had the same kind of daydreams as everyone else. She’d just quickly learned they never came true.

“I’m not romantic. This isn’t about chasing a fairytale. You know me better than that.”

“Yeah. But…”

“I’m dying. I know. That’s why I want to do this before it’s too late.”

“But why Paul?”

“Who else?”

That stumped Chris. He didn’t respond. Just looked at her in concern.

She sighed and twisted the rag in both hands. “There’s no one else, Chris. I know it’s kind of crazy, but it’s the first thing on my list. And I really want to do everything before I die.”

His face contorted briefly, and she suddenly realized this was hurting him.

With a lump in her throat, she pulled him into a hug. “I know this whole thing is terrible, but it’s either sit around here and wait to die. Or do this. I want to do this.”

Chris hugged her back, but he was frowning when he pulled away. “I get it. I really do. But do you really think you can trust Paul?”

“Why shouldn’t I?  He’s always been kind of irresponsible, but he seems to be pulling it together lately.”

“Well, just be careful around him.”

“He’s not like his father. You know that. He hates him. He doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

The incident that had confirmed Paul as a prince in their neighborhood was when, during the vicious divorce battle between his mother and father, he’d sided entirely with his mother. He never accepted a dime from his father, not since he was thirteen years old.

“Yeah. I know. But you know how he is with girls. He might try to…try to…” Chris cleared his throat, adorably awkward at the topic. “Get in your pants,” he concluded lamely.

Emily laughed out loud, in genuine amusement, her eyes straying to the corner where Chris’s sister, Laura, was sitting at a table, sipping a mocha and texting on her phone.

Laura was gorgeous and built like a model, and she’d dated Paul for almost six months last year, the longest he’d ever dated anyone. For a while, it looked like he might have really fallen for her, but they’d finally broken up.

Laura was exactly Paul’s type.

Emily wasn’t.

“Well, we’ll be married, after all.”

Chris looked so upset by her tongue-in-cheek response that Emily hugged him again. “Please don’t worry about me. I’m the one that engineered this. Not him. He’s just being a good guy and helping me out.”

As if on cue, the bell on the shop door sounded, and she pulled back from Chris’s chest to see Paul entering.

As usual, everyone glanced over to acknowledge his entrance. He’d always been the center of any room he walked into.

Now, he frowned and started over to her. “What are you doing?” His eyes unerringly took in the rag in her hand and the apron she’d wrapped around her waist. “Are you working?”

“Jill had an emergency.”

“Why are you—”

Since he looked irrationally annoyed by her decision to fill in for her friend, Emily had no qualms about interrupting him. “You know Chris?”

“Sure. Laura’s brother.” Paul held his hand out and shook Chris’s hand distractedly. “There’s no reason you need to be working…”

Emily assumed he’d finished the thought, but she didn’t hear it because she walked away.

She’d never liked anyone to boss her. Not even her father.

She certainly wasn’t going to stand around and be bossed by Paul Marino.

She’d gone to the back to get some more coffee cups, dutifully ignoring Paul and his obnoxiousness. When she pushed through the door again, though, he was right there waiting.

For some reason, she felt an unexpected surge of attraction, which was ridiculous because he obviously wasn’t trying to be sexy at the moment. Mostly he looked grumpy and exasperated with his rumpled dark hair and tense jaw.

But she experienced an intense wave of attraction. Not in the old way—that distant idolization—but rather a visceral response to the masculinity he exuded.

It left her breathless. And incredibly annoyed with herself.

“You shouldn’t have to be working,” he said, as if there hadn’t been any interruption in their conversation. “Especially not now—”

“That I’m dying?” she finished tartly.

He took a breath, obviously planning to respond.

She didn’t let him. “I don’t care if you think work is somehow beneath me now I’m going to get married to you. I’ve worked all my life, and that’s not going to change now. I’m not a spoiled rich boy who lives on a trust fund and wastes his life partying, sleeping around, and jumping out of planes. This is me. This is what I do. Most people can’t lounge around all day doing nothing.”

Paul’s expression grew tighter and tighter as she spoke, and his eyes were cold and hard when she’d finished. “What have I done to deserve that?”

Emily drooped, letting out her pent breath in a rush. “Nothing. You haven’t done anything to me. I’m sorry if I was harsh.”

His mouth softened slightly. “I really wasn’t suggesting that you shouldn’t work because we’re going to get married.”

“Then why all the bossing?”

“I’m not convinced ‘bossing’ is the appropriate descriptor of my conduct just now.”

Despite herself, Emily snorted in amusement at his dry, lofty tone, even though she knew that was the response he’d been looking for.

Paul might be irresponsible and entitled, but he’d always been incredibly smart. He finished college when he was twenty and went on to get his MBA. How he managed to successfully earn his degree last month while still indulging his very wild lifestyle she couldn’t even imagine.

“Well,” Emily said, forcing down her defensiveness since it wasn’t really Paul’s fault, “It wouldn’t kill you to get a job.”

To her surprise, he didn’t laugh or shrug her comment off. “Believe it or not, I’ve been trying.”

Taken off guard, she blurted out the obvious question. “Where do you want a job?”

“Simone’s.”

Paul was neighborhood royalty not because of his father’s reputation. His mother’s family had been equally important in the community—her great-grandfather having made a fortune by starting Simone’s, a national department store chain, and her father having been savvy enough to transition to successful online retailing just in time to keep the company from going bust.

His mother had died last year, leaving all she had to her son, but he couldn’t claim most of it or his share in the company until he turned twenty-five.

Emily could hardly blame the woman for not risking everything her family had worked to achieve on a reckless bad-boy like Paul.

“What kind of job are you trying to get? Mail room clerk? Receptionist?”

The corner of his mouth turned up briefly. “I’m not expecting to be appointed CEO at twenty-three, but I’m perfectly well-qualified for some sort of position. The board just doesn’t trust me.”

“Can you blame them?”

The smile disappeared. “It’s my family’s company.”

“Yeah.” Emily thought about it for a minute, surprised and faintly pleased that Paul was actually serious about his desire to work in his mother’s company. In all the years she’d known him, he hadn’t appeared to take anything seriously. Not until recently. “Good thing the press hasn’t caught wind of that. Evil board members heartlessly shutting out grieving son from his birthright.”

Paul was leaning on the counter, but now he straightened up suddenly. His brows drew together.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. He might have said something, but Jill burst through the door just then, immediately breaking into effusive thanks for Emily.

Not wanting to leave Jill with a mess, Emily went to clear some of the plates and cups from a couple of tables. When she turned around, she realized that Laura had gone over to talk to Paul.

Actually, hang all over him would be a more accurate description. And Paul was smiling back at her.

Emily met Chris’s eyes across the room, and she knew what her friend was thinking.

Chris thought Paul was a player. Thought he’d never be faithful, never be a good husband, not even for a few months.

He didn’t realize that Emily wasn’t expecting Paul to be any such thing.

This wasn’t about fulfilling some girlish, fairytale daydream. It was simply about completing her list.

One thing Emily knew very well.

There were Lauras in the world, and there were Emilys.

The Lauras were adored by all who saw them, winning admirers and lovers by doing nothing more than flashing a smile. The Lauras married rich men and lived lives of ease and safety.

The Emilys of the world had to scrimp for every penny. Even though they were smart and nice and pretty enough, they still made it through high school without ever having a real boyfriend—since no one of interest ever asked them out. The Emilys of the world made stupid mistakes, like overhearing a mob boss’s conversation about drug trafficking and money laundering. And, being too stubborn to be intimidated into silence, the Emilys of the world ended up in ridiculously melodramatic scenarios like becoming witnesses in federal trials.

And then they contracted mysterious viruses that would kill them at eighteen.

Emily used to have daydreams like everyone else, but she’d long since given up hoping they would come true. It was fine. She’d always been self-sufficient, and she wasn’t going to start feeling sorry for herself now.

She had her list, and Paul had agreed to help her complete it. That was all the kindness she could expect from the universe.

There were Lauras in the world, and there were Emilys.

The Emilys didn’t get the happy ending.

And they never got the prince.

TWO

The polished middle-aged woman behind the desk glared at Paul like he was a degenerate.

It occurred to him that she might be right.

He didn’t have any difficulty reading her mind as she slanted him disapproving looks while she called back to the judge to verify Paul’s request and then searched through a stack of paperwork in her outbox.

He was an experienced twenty-three-year-old man who was taking ruthless advantage of the innocence and vulnerability of a seventeen-year-old girl without a family. The woman was likely aware of Paul’s unsavory reputation and had come to her own conclusions about his insistence on an expedited marriage license so he could marry a girl who hadn’t yet reached legal age.

While Paul was used to people questioning his moral credibility, the judgment in the woman’s eyes made him slightly uncomfortable.

He wasn’t sure he should be marrying Emily either.

Because of an overflow of pity he hadn’t been able to control, he’d agreed to her unconventional proposal. He couldn’t go back on his word now. It would crush her completely.

So he kept his expression impassive and pretended he didn’t notice the woman’s obvious censure.

He watched as she put the document she'd retrieved into a large envelope and tucked the flap under the edge instead of sealing it. “Here you are, Mr. Marino. You should have everything you need.”

He thanked her coolly and left the office, checking inside the envelope in the elevator to make sure everything was in order.

Going from proposal to marriage ceremony in three days created a lot of logistical hoops for one to jump through.

He got a phone call as he was leaving the building, and he stopped on the sidewalk to take it.

Emily was waiting in the back of the waiting car as he climbed in.

“Did you get it?” she asked, looking up from the smart phone she’d been tapping on.

He showed her the envelope. “We are now legally allowed to wed.”

“Don’t you feel special, pulling strings so you can hook up with a minor?” She grinned at him in that way she had—somehow both sunny and ironic at once.

She’d seemed depressed after her aunt died, compounded by the stress of the approaching trial. But, ever since she’d accepted she was going to die, the depression had faded. He didn’t think she was genuinely happy, but she acted almost normal—as if she was determined to live out her last days with as much good spirit as she could muster.

Paul couldn’t help but smile, the discomfort he’d been feeling earlier easing at the affirmation that this marriage was exactly what Emily wanted. After all, in a few months, she wouldn’t be alive to want anything at all.

“What was the call?” she asked, peering at his face as if she could read something in his expression.

“What do you mean?” He knew exactly what she meant.

“It seemed important, since you stood on the sidewalk for the whole phone call. And now you look like you have a happy secret.”

He gave a faint huff of amusement at her choice of words. “Actually, it was good news. They gave me a job at Simone’s, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yeah. You gave me the idea. I threatened the board with going to the press, and they caved and gave me a position.”

“Really?” She looked almost happy for him. “What’s the position?”

“Assistant Vice President of Management.”

“What does the Assistant Vice President of Management do?”

“From what I was just told, he will evidently be the dumping ground for all tedious or impossible projects on other people’s desks.”

She seemed to hide a smile. “Oh. Well, at least it’s something.”

“Yeah. It’s definitely better than nothing.”

As his driver took them the few blocks to the law office that was handling their pre-nup, Paul checked his messages and Emily kept tapping on her phone.

She wore a skirt suit he’d seen her wear before—very likely the most professional outfit she owned—and her hair was pulled up in some sort of twist. She was very pretty, with sandy blond hair, unusually vivid blue eyes, a small, curvy figure, and an extraordinary smile.

He did think her top revealed more cleavage than was entirely necessary. Not that he was in the habit of complaining about women flashing some skin, but he’d rather not notice such things in his seventeen-year-old bride-to-be.

At least Emily looked older than her age, so most people seeing them together would probably not immediately peg him for a sleazebag.

When Emily smiled down at her phone and let out a breathy laugh, his curiosity was piqued. “Who are you texting?”

“Chris,” she told him, glancing up before she started to reply with another message.

“How’s he doing?”

“He’s fine.” Her expression was fond as she worked on her smart phone.

Paul was silent for several minutes, since she didn’t seem to want to chat. He reflected with a good dose of irony that tomorrow he would marry a woman who would obviously rather talk to someone other than him.

How many men could say the same?

* * *

The meeting with the lawyers about the pre-nup took less than an hour. He’d asked them to draw up a simple contract in which the terms of their marriage were specified.

Paul would agree to pay for all of Emily’s living and medical expenses for the duration of her life or until the end of their marriage, as well as pay for her funeral and burial in the cemetery plot next to her father and aunt. Emily would agree to testify against Vincent Marino and would agree that her living relatives would receive no rights whatsoever to Paul’s estate after her death.  There were some more standard clauses about infidelity and divorce scenarios which the lawyers insisted on including, although obviously they wouldn’t be relevant for this particular marriage.

Emily listened carefully as the entire agreement was explained to her. She asked a few intelligent questions, and she didn’t seem at all fazed by the blunt discussion of her impending death.

Since Paul already knew the details of the pre-nup, he didn’t have to pay much attention. Instead, he watched Emily, wondering what she was really thinking and how he would feel if he’d been told he had only three months to live.

Emily’s attention had been directed at the young, brunette lawyer who was explaining each item in the contract, but at one point she shifted her eyes over to Paul without warning, catching him staring at her. She cocked her head with a quizzical look as if she couldn’t figure him out.

“Remember,” she said, after a moment, “If you cheat on me you’ll have to pay up.”

The comment clearly startled the brunette lawyer, but Paul had to suppress a laugh.

He hoped her joke meant that she knew he wasn’t going to be unfaithful in their short-lived marriage. It would just feel cheap for him to cheat on a dying wife, whether or not the marriage was a sham.

Eventually, the pre-nup was signed by both parties, and Emily and Paul got up to leave, just a little behind their schedule. Paul still had to finish up several things here in the city before they boarded an international flight this evening, but things were moving as smoothly as could be expected.

Emily had to stop in the restroom before they left the offices, and Paul made a couple of calls as he waited for her near the elevators.

When he finished his second call and Emily still hadn’t emerged, he started to get a little worried. Over the last few weeks, he’d discovered that Emily didn’t take forever in the bathroom, primping and doing whatever other mysterious behavior took some women so long. So, after waiting a little while longer, he walked over to the receptionist’s desk.

The attractive woman behind the desk smiled at him warmly as he began, “My fiancée has been in the restroom for a long time. Would you mind going to—”

“There she is,” the receptionist interrupted, looking over Paul’s shoulder with an expression that made it clear she’d concluded he was both cute and besotted. “Nothing to worry about.”

Paul was too relieved by Emily’s appearance to pay much attention to the receptionist’s reaction. He walked over to Emily, who had gone to stand near the elevators and was giving him a strange, narrow-eyed look.

“So I can’t even go to the bathroom without my devoted fiancé flirting with the secretaries?”

Paul’s mouth dropped open. “I wasn’t flirting. I was worried about you. Are you all right?”

“Of course. What are you talking about?”

For no reason that made any sense, Paul felt rattled and frustrated all of a sudden, and he was tempted to make a snide comment that he knew would rile her up. He bit it back, however, telling himself that no good would come from picking a fight with Emily when they were getting married the following day and she only had three months to live.

That thought made his earlier concern return, and he scanned her carefully as she reached to punch the elevator's down button.

She’d been a little pale all day, but he thought she looked even paler now. He noticed the delicate skin under her eyes was darker than it should be, and her face was dewy, as if she’d been perspiring. Since the temperature in this suite was set very low, he couldn’t believe she would have gotten too hot.

“What are you staring at?” she asked, giving him a decidedly grouchy look.

He ignored the question and reached his hand over to feel her forehead.

She jerked away from his touch before he could get a sense of how hot she was. “What the hell are you doing?”

Torn between worry and deep annoyance at her irrational behavior, Paul gritted out, “What do you think I'm doing? I’m checking on you. Do you have a fever?”

“No.” She stood a few feet away from him, breathing heavily and obviously trying to compose her expression. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. You look like you might be sick.”

“Thanks a lot,” she muttered sarcastically. “And I tried so hard to be beautiful for you today."

Then she took a deep breath, likely forcing herself to be reasonable. “I’m not sick, Paul. I don’t have a fever. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t treat me like an invalid. I wanted to marry you partly because I thought you would treat me like a regular person and not like I was sick all the time.  I want to enjoy these last months—not be coddled and trapped in a hospital.”

Paul forced down a swell of frustration at her stubbornness and of resentment that she evidently thought he was so heartless that he wouldn't care whether she was sick or not. “I have no intention of keeping you in a hospital, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure you enjoy these three months. But part of my responsibility is to take care of you.”

When she opened her mouth to object, he pressed on, shaping his words to address the objection he was sure she would have given, “I do need to take care of you, Emily, if only to ensure that you’re able to testify against my father.”

His last comment seemed to silence her arguments, and she stared up at the digital numbers which showed both elevators were still on the lower floors of the building. He didn’t think she was really seeing the numbers, however—she just didn’t want to look at him.

“Emily?” he prompted, wishing his voice wasn’t quite so thick.

She cut her eyes back to him. She twisted her hands together, and he realized suddenly they were trembling.

He felt a sharp stab of concern. Emily looked small and pale and upset. He took an instinctive step closer to her.

“I don’t have a fever,” she insisted. “I would know if I did.”

“Then you won’t mind if I check for myself.”

Her jaw was set stubbornly, but she gritted out, “Fine.”

He stepped in front of her and reached out again to place his palm on her forehead. He was vaguely surprised and very relieved when she didn’t feel unusually hot. He slid his hand down to her cheek and then back up to her head, studying her face closely.

“See,” she said, “I told you. I’m fine.”

“I'm no expert, but you don’t feel like you have a fever. That’s good.” He was just lowering his hand when the receptionist he’d spoken to earlier walked by. He caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, and she was smiling in an amused, maternal way—as if she’d just caught two young lovers in a tender moment.

Paul stiffened, feeling more awkward than he should have over such a little thing.

He was used to being good with women. He instinctively knew how to make women laugh, make them melt, make them open to his advances—but none of his normal routines could ever be used on Emily. He’d felt off-kilter ever since she’d come to him with this crazy scheme, and it seemed to get worse by the day.

He’d known her casually from around the neighborhood most of her life, and he’d always felt comfortable with her. She was an intelligent, clever girl who didn’t unduly tax his emotional resources. Even when he’d felt deep sympathy for her when she was diagnosed with this virus, she hadn’t made him feel rattled this way.

It was probably a sign that this marriage was a mistake, but he’d gone too far to renege on their agreement now.

The elevator finally arrived on their floor, and they both got in. As they waited for the doors to close, Emily said, “I’m sorry I was snippy. I know you were just trying to help.”

Paul relaxed a little, verifying from her expression that she was sincere. “I’ll try not to coddle you too much,” he told her, half-smiling at his use of her word. “As long as you’ll let me take reasonable steps to make sure you’re taken care of, as part of my role in this marriage.”

Emily nodded, looking away from him as if something he’d said had made her feel self-conscious.

“And speaking of that,” he added, deciding he might as well get this next thing over with too. He reached into his pocket.

She gazed up at him with eyes that looked bigger and bluer because her face was so pale. He was distracted at the thought that she might be sick even though she didn’t have a fever.

“What is it, Paul?” she asked, a faint impatience reflected in her expression.

He fiddled with a little velvet pouch until the ring came out. “I thought you might want an engagement ring, since we’re now legally allowed to be engaged.”

Emily wordlessly stared down at the ring he extended.

He’d found the ring for her yesterday, since he assumed she would want the entire wedding experience, of which an important feature for women was the ring.

He’d gone to the jeweler he normally used for women’s gifts, thinking he’d just get her a basic diamond solitaire. But the manager had been thrilled at his unexpected engagement and had asked question after question about what Emily was like and what she might want, so he’d eventually had to come to a real conclusion about the kind of ring that would suit her.

He’d finally landed on the ring he was now presenting to her. The band was a delicate twining of gold and platinum, intricately filigreed and nestling an emerald with small diamonds on either side.

He thought the ring was stunning and had more character than the generic diamond solitaires on platinum bands everyone seemed to favor now. It had felt like Emily to him.

But he started to feel rather self-conscious when she just stood frozen in the elevator and stared at it.

He cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know,” she breathed, her eyes never leaving the ring, “I mean, I didn’t think you’d get me a ring.”

“Well, why not?” Ridiculously, he felt almost offended.

“I don’t know. I just have three months to wear it.”

“Then you better start now.” When she still didn’t take it, he added, “I thought maybe you’d like something different, but I can get you a more traditional diamond if—”

“No!” she burst out, “This is beautiful. But it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much.” Since he felt like an idiot holding out the ring she refused to accept, he moved it back to the same hand as the velvet pouch.

The elevator stopped on a floor, but the doors opened and closed without anyone coming on.

“It must have been really expensive,” she said, when it was clear no one else was getting on the elevator with them. Her eyes strayed back down to the ring. “Although I guess you can sell it back, after I…”

Paul almost choked on his indignation. “I’m not going to sell it back. It’s yours. I bought it for you. Do you want the damned ring or not?”

Her eyes lifted to meet his at last. “Yes. Thank you.”

Since she still made no move to take the ring and they would reach the ground floor soon, he picked up her left hand. Her hand seemed very small in his, and it was cooler than he had expected. Resolved to do his duty no matter how foolish he felt, he slipped the engagement ring on her finger.

“There,” he said, dropping his hand and stuffing the velvet pouch back in his pocket.

“It fits,” Emily murmured. She was still extending her hand and staring down at the ring.

“I checked your ring size before I bought it.”

“Thank you,” Emily said, raising her eyes to his again. Her cheeks had flushed pink. “Thank you so much.”

She’d always been an impossible mingling of contradictions—somehow coming across as tough and vulnerable at once—and more so now than ever.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled, staring at the elevator doors which were just about to open at last. He'd never been on an elevator ride that had lasted so long. “It’s no big deal.”

But Emily seemed to think it was a big deal. As they left the building and walked to the waiting car, Emily kept gazing down at her ring. Her left hand was fisted, and she held it in her right palm, as if she were cradling her ring.

Paul experienced a painful pang in his chest—one that wouldn’t go away, even after they’d gotten to their next stop—as he processed that Emily had been told she had three months to live, but she was still able to be so sincerely grateful because someone had given her a ring.

Sometimes, the universe could be bitterly unjust.

And not just to him.

They made it through the rest of the afternoon and evening without incident, finishing all of the final details on their task list before they headed to the airport for their flight.

In a moment of quiet, just before their plane took off, Paul couldn’t help but think that, not long ago, his biggest concern had been taking the comprehensive exams for his MBA while nursing the world’s worst hangover.

Then his mother had died and everything had changed.

His father was sitting in prison right now, waiting for a criminal trial to finally bring him to justice. Paul had just given an engagement ring to a girl who was dying from a brutal virus that had no cure. They were about to take off on a red-eye flight to Europe. Tomorrow, he had to plan an entire wedding, hopefully one that would somewhat satisfy a girl's lifelong daydreams, so she could cross at least one thing off her bucket list. And tomorrow evening, at sunset, Paul would get married.

At some point in the last few months, his life had taken a decidedly odd turn.

***

Paul had just gotten out of the shower when his phone rang, so for a frustrating twenty-minute phone conversation he’d been wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips.

“Listen,” he finally interrupted, “I don’t have time for all this now.  And I just can’t believe a jury is going to doubt Emily’s testimony, just because she married me. All you have to do is ask her to explain herself on the stand. I guarantee that, once they hear about her aunt, her health condition, and the reasons she married me, they’re going to be on her side and believe what she says.”

“You’re probably right,” Bill Hathaway replied. He was the assistant U.S. attorney responsible for his father’s case. “I just thought I’d better bring it to your attention.”

Paul rubbed a hand through his damp hair and tried to think through options and consequences. “We’re getting married in just over an hour. You need to tell me right now if you think my marrying her will genuinely jeopardize the case.”

He felt a little sick as considered the possibility of canceling the wedding—imagining how Emily would feel—but he had to stay reasonable. Priorities had to remain priorities, and the greater good was always more important than sentiment.

His father being sent to prison was the greater good. For everyone.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, before the other man said, “No. It won’t. And you’re right about the jury sympathizing with her even more. We should be fine.”

“Good. Then the rest of this conversation can wait. I have to get married now. We’ll be back in town on Friday to take care of the rest of it.”

When Hathaway had hung up, Paul put his phone down and tried to shake all thoughts of the trial and his father out of his mind. They were like a weight about to descend on him, one he was holding back with the force of his will. He was more distracted than he’d been earlier, though, as he started to get dressed in the black suit he was wearing for the ceremony.

He wasn’t wearing a tuxedo, since the wedding was in a garden and Emily wasn’t wearing a very formal dress.

They’d arrived in Paris early that morning, and he’d used an old friend of his mother’s to arrange for them to get into the Louvre before regular hours, so Emily could see the Mona Lisa—one of the lower items on her list—while they were in France. Then they’d flown into Aix and been driven to the historic, luxury inn he’d picked out as the venue for the wedding ceremony.

For the last several hours, ever since they’d arrived, he’d been wrapped up in plans for the wedding. The inn had provided a wedding planner, but there were still a zillion details to handle in a very short amount of time, and Emily had to go pick out a dress and then visit the day spa to get her hair done, a manicure, and whatever else women needed to feel pretty on their wedding day.

Although he was eager to get back to Philadelphia so he could get started on his new job, he’d told Emily they could wait until the following day to get married, so they wouldn’t be quite so rushed today.

But she hadn’t wanted to wait.

Paul had managed to get mostly dressed when his phone rang again. Smothering an impatient sound, he greeted the wedding planner.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said apologetically, “But there’s been a question about the music choices, and I think you need to weigh in.”

“We covered this. They can play anything they want, as long as it’s pleasant, classical, and not associated with those standard wedding pieces.”

“I understand that, sir. But I was just listening to one of the pieces they were practicing, and I think you’d better…”

“Fine. I’ll be right down.”

Since he was going to see the wedding planner anyway, he grabbed the slim, velvet necklace box that had been sitting on the table in his room and took it with him out to the walled garden, where the ceremony was going to take place.

Emily had originally suggested that they just get married by a judge at the courthouse. That certainly would have been easier for all involved, and Paul would have preferred it, but he wasn’t convinced that was what she really wanted. If this wedding was supposed to fulfill one of her life’s dreams, then a quick, no-nonsense union at the courthouse would be a letdown.

So he’d suggested a church wedding in the neighborhood, but she said she’d feel awkward with all her friends and acquaintances present when it wasn’t a real marriage and they all knew she would die shortly. Then he suggested a couple of picturesque chapels and gardens in Philadelphia. It was only then that he discovered what she was really concerned about.

Part of her dreams of a wedding was being surrounded by people she loved, and she wouldn’t have anyone—not one person—that she loved at this wedding. She didn’t want to walk down the aisle of a chapel when no one was sitting in the pews.

That was when he’d suggested a destination wedding, where the scenery and the exotic locale might offset the lack of family and friends. Plus, the trip would make her feel more like she was getting a honeymoon. She’d initially objected, since she felt bad about his spending so much time and money on something unnecessary, but he didn’t consider those to be valid objections.

He’d asked her where she wanted to go, and she’d said he could choose. He’d chosen Provence because his mother used to take him here on vacation.

Emily had appeared enthusiastic about all of his suggestions, so he assumed he’d made a decent choice. It was a lot of pressure to plan the fantasy wedding of a woman who would die in three months, but, if Paul was going to do it, then he was going to do it right.

He stopped short when he entered the garden, startled by how beautiful it was. The garden itself was lovely—surrounded by a two-hundred-year-old stone wall and filled with big shade trees, two ornate fountains, and trellises covered with grapevines and climbing roses. Near the largest fountain, they’d set up an arbor, spilling over with greenery, orchids, and pink and white roses.

They’d scattered the path Emily would walk with rose petals.

He went a roundabout way to reach the wedding planner, so he wouldn’t walk all over the rose petals. She smiled, looking a little hassled, when he approached.

“This looks great,” he said.

“I think so too,” she replied in heavily accented English. “It’s like a fairy tale. If I didn’t have a hundred guests at my wedding, I might have married here too.” She gestured toward a far corner, where Paul saw a string quartet had set up with their stands and instruments. “Can you listen?”

At the woman's direction, the quartet began to play, and Paul listened in silence. It was a polished arrangement that was obviously intended for weddings. While most of it was comprised of a piece from Handel, the arranger had added a few clever interludes that teased with a bar or two of music that sounded like Wagner’s "Bridal Chorus."

After a few minutes, the wedding planner said, “It’s lovely, no?”

“Yes, it is, but I don't think we can use it."

He could see from the woman’s face that she was dying to know why they had to avoid music that sounded in any way like the most traditional wedding music. She was too professional to ask, though, and Paul didn’t volunteer the information.

Emily wasn’t going to walk down the aisle with her father, and she wasn’t going to recess on the arm of a man she loved. So Paul’s challenge was to create a wedding that would satisfy her daydreams without bringing aching attention to everything she didn’t have.

This was the best he could do.

“I need to finish getting ready,” he said, glancing at his wrist instinctively although he hadn’t put on his watch. “Can you take care of this? I’m sure they have more in their repertoire. Bach or Vivaldi or something else. “

“Of course, Mr. Marino.”

“Oh, and when you go up to check on Emily, can you give her this?” Paul handed the woman the velvet box he’d brought out with him.

“Yes, yes,” she said, smiling down at the necklace box rather fatuously. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

Paul left before he could get annoyed by the woman’s expression. He wasn’t some love-struck groom who couldn’t resist giving his bride another present, and it made him slightly uncomfortable that the wedding planner obviously thought he was.

The necklace in the box was an antique diamond and emerald pendant that matched the engagement ring, hung on a platinum chain, and the seller had been offering them as a set. Paul had just wanted the ring, but—according to the jewelry store manager—the seller refused. So he’d ended up buying both of them by necessity. Since he’d had to buy it, there was no reason Emily shouldn’t have it.

He walked through the grounds until he’d reached the private cottage where he and Emily were staying. It was really more of a two-bedroom luxury suite than a cottage, but a cottage was what the inn called it.

When he walked into his bedroom, he noticed a small black box on his table, tied with a silver bow. It hadn't been there before. Frowning, he picked it up and opened it.

Inside was a folded piece of paper, on which was handwritten, “It’s fine if you don’t like them—you really don’t have to wear them. But they reminded me of you. I wanted to give you something, since it’s tradition and you’re doing so much for me. Emily.”

Intrigued by this unexpected gesture, Paul put down the note and looked inside the box to find a set of Damascene cufflinks. They looked vintage and were probably Spanish. Certainly not very expensive—maybe a few hundred dollars. The black background and gold metalwork portrayed a tiny image of a horse and rider.

He looked at the cufflinks. Then back at the note. Then he picked up the cufflinks and peered at them more closely. Both the horse and rider looked strong, graceful, almost noble. He couldn’t imagine why they would have reminded Emily of him.

But he liked them, and he liked that Emily had thought to give them to him. So he took off the cufflinks he was wearing and replaced them with the Damascene ones.  Then he put on his tie and jacket, and he was ready to go outside to get married.

* * *

As he waited in the garden near the arbor with the minister and manager of the inn, Paul decided he’d made a pretty good choice with the setting. The sun was lowering in the sky, and the sunlight in Provence at this time of day was always warm and glowing—like no other place he’d ever been.

The fragrance of lavender and herbs from the hills around them, with a back note of sea air, mingled with the stronger fragrance of the roses and lilacs in the garden. The string quartet was playing Vivaldi’s “Winter,” the tune wafting with the breeze over to where he stood.

It wasn’t a traditional wedding. There were no guests. No attendants. But the setting had a romantic, daydream quality that he hoped Emily would appreciate.

For less than five hours of real wedding planning, he thought he’d done a pretty decent job.

He was ready to go, and he guessed Emily was too, but both the wedding planner and the inn’s manager insisted that they wait until exactly seven-thirty in the evening to get started, which was still ten minutes away.

So he waited in silence for his bride to walk down the aisle.

He wondered how he would feel if this wedding was real—if this lush setting, warm sunset, and haunting music was initiating a life with a woman he loved. A woman who really loved him.

Women had always wanted him for money, for prestige, for sex, for a certain lifestyle, but they didn’t actually fall in love with him.

At least, no one ever had yet.

On this thought, the world seemed to shift.

Without warning, the string music transitioned into something lofty and stirring, and the wedding planner came into the garden, circling around the back and out of the way. The sunlight itself had transformed without Paul's realizing it. The sun must have finally lowered into the position they were waiting for because just then the entire garden became gilded in warm light.

The setting sunlight streamed in at an angle over the wall and bathed the trees, the fountains, the cobblestone paths, the flowers—all of it in rich gold. Paul stared around him in astonishment.

The garden no longer looked like the real world—with hard edges and deep shadows. It glowed like a dream.

Out of this surreal haze emerged Emily, walking down the path toward him, surrounded not by empty pews or vacant chairs but by trees and flowers and foliage.

As she approached him now, her fair skin, the white dress, the pink tulips in her bouquet, the orchid in her hair, the emerald pendant he’d given her at her neck, they were all gilded, all golden.

Paul blinked in surprise at how beautiful she was. Then he shook his head to clear it. If he had been in love with her, he would have been completely blown away by this vision. As it was, he felt just a little breathless.

When she reached him and stepped over to stand beside him in front of the arbor, Paul was abruptly dragged out of his golden daze when he realized she was crying.

She wasn’t sobbing, but tears streamed down her cheeks. For just a moment, her face twisted as she tried to control her emotion.

He sucked in a breath and leaned forward, asking her a silent question with his eyes. It was possible that Emily had changed her mind. That she’d decided this wasn’t what she wanted. If that was the case, he needed to know.

She shook her head at his unspoken question. Then a wide smile completely transformed her face. She mouthed, “Thank you.”

Paul relaxed as he turned toward the minister. It was perfectly natural that Emily would be emotional, but her tears were clearly not a sign that she was disappointed by the wedding or rethinking the marriage.

The ceremony itself was very brief—just a few readings and the traditional vows. The rings they exchanged were simple matching platinum bands.

When the minister pronounced, “You may kiss the bride,” Paul leaned over and kissed Emily gently on the mouth. She smelled like lavender, and she leaned into the kiss for just a moment before they both pulled away.

And then they were married.

At least Emily had stopped crying.

* * *

Paul returned to their cottage about fifteen minutes after Emily did, since he’d had to wrap a few things up with the wedding planner and the inn’s staff.

He was tired, and he was still shaking off the remnants of that weird golden daze, but things had gone well. He hoped Emily would be happy with the ceremony, and he thought he’d done everything he could to give this to her before she died.

So he was surprised when, on seeing the French doors off the main room open, he looked out onto their private terrace and found Emily surrounded by champagne, gourmet food, flowers, and the last light of the sun.

She was crying again.

Her face wasn’t just streaming with tears as it had been when she’d walked down the aisle. Now she was sobbing for real.

His felt vaguely ill as he processed her presence.

He was tempted to back up and retreat to his own room, rather than deal with a weeping woman after a very long few days. But he couldn’t seem to do it. Cursing the over-developed sense of responsibility that had only emerged these last few months, he stepped out onto the terrace.

As soon as she saw him, she started to pull herself together, suppressing her sobs and trying to wipe away her tears.

Paul didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He felt awkward and disappointed and just a tiny bit resentful—since he’d invested so much time and money in creating this wedding experience for her and it hadn’t been enough.

“I’m sorry,” Emily choked, using a napkin to dry her face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, pleased that his tone was mild, almost gentle. “I’m sorry the wedding didn’t live up to your dreams.”

“It did,” she said, her eyes widening in surprise, “Paul, the wedding was absolutely incredible. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It was perfect.”

Something unclenched in Paul at her words. “Then…”

Emily looked away. “I miss my dad.”

Her father had died two years ago, but that wasn’t really so long.

There was nothing Paul could say.

In an aching, twisted way, he missed his father too.

After a few minutes, when Emily had stopped crying completely, Paul got up and opened the champagne. He poured two glasses and handed one to Emily.

They weren’t likely to be arrested for under-age drinking in France.

They filled their plates with the refreshments laid out for them. Emily finished hers and then went back for more. Together, they ate most of their tiny wedding cake and finished the bottle of champagne.

Paul was a lot more comfortable by the time they were through, sitting now with an Emily who was laughing and making wry comments—the Emily he’d known before, the one who didn’t make his chest ache.

She still wore her wedding dress, but her relaxed position had made the neckline droop farther than it was supposed to.

Catching himself eyeing her lush cleavage with the same kind of absent appreciation he would have given any woman who looked so good, he forced his eyes away immediately.

Emily’s dress was sleeveless with a square neckline, and it fell to just above her ankles. He’d already seen the bill for it, and he could almost guarantee that Emily had no idea how expensive the dress really was.

He heard her sigh deeply beside him and looked over to see that her lips were turned up as she gazed out at the garden, almost pink with the last of the sunset.  When she noticed him watching her, she smiled. “I’d always thought the most beautiful places in the world were the beach and mountains.” She took another deep breath of lavender- and herb-scented evening air. “I’d never imagined a place like this.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Oh, and thank you for this,” she said, putting a hand over the emerald pendant resting at her collarbone. “You really didn’t have to get it for me, but it’s gorgeous.”

He gave a half-shrug. “Fair trade, then, since you gave me the cufflinks.” He’d already taken off his suit jacket and flung it on an extra chair, so he held up his arm to show her his cuffs.

With a downward glance, she murmured, “I saw you were wearing them. I really had no idea what to—”

“I like them,” he interrupted. “Thank you.”

She nodded. Then she took the final sip of champagne in her glass and reached over to the table to pick up a folded piece of paper.

Paul recognized it.

She unfolded her list and slanted him a significant look.

“Go ahead,” he prompted.

She picked up the pen from the table and firmly crossed off the first item on her list.

Then she grinned at him.

Despite the very strange day, the very strange week, the very strange few months, Paul couldn’t help but smile back.

“Don’t forget to cross off the Mona Lisa too,” he reminded her, noticing that none of the other items on the list were crossed off yet.

“Oh yes,” she said, drawing a neat line through some words near the bottom of the page. “That makes two. Only twelve more to go.”

Despite her shift into the relaxed mood, Paul felt a pang of deep sympathy at her final words. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have only twelve more things left to accomplish before you died. So his voice was gentler than normal when he said, “We’ll make sure you cross off all of them.”

Emily’s lip curled up as she made an annoyed face in his direction.

“What?” he demanded, genuinely baffled.

“You were feeling sorry for me.”

It was true, but he didn’t know how he could help it.

“Anyway,” she said, “Thanks for doing all this, Paul. I know you don’t want me to keep thanking you, but I really have to a few more times. I can’t imagine anyone doing a better job with it.” She lowered her eyes. “I never dreamed you would do so much for me.”

The truth was Paul wouldn’t have thought he would have done so much for Emily either. While he found it easy to spend money on other people, he’d put more time and effort into these wedding plans than he could have imagined doing for Emily even two months ago.

But he hadn’t known she was going to die then.

There were things he wished he’d done and said to his mother before she died, and he hadn’t done or said any of them.

There were things his mother had wanted him to change about his life, and he hadn’t changed them until it was too late for her to know.

He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

Emily continued, very softly, almost as if she were talking to herself, “I never dreamed anyone would do so much for me.”

Paul sucked in a sharp breath. There was something poignant in her words, and it struck a chord with him. If he were honest with himself, he couldn’t imagine anyone doing so much for him either—whether he was about to die or not.

Because he felt uncomfortable, he tried to downplay her thanks. “It’s just money.”

She turned to look at him, her deep blue eyes holding his soberly. “It’s not just money to me.”

He nodded to acknowledge her comment, and then he decided this day had lasted long enough. Tomorrow, things would probably feel more normal. He and Emily could return to their casual relationship, and Paul wouldn’t be dragged so often out of his comfort zone.

“It’s been a long day,” he said, in a tone that universally signaled conclusion, “I’m sure you’re exhausted. You should get some sleep.”

On Emily’s face was the strangest expression, although her tone was light as she said, “So I guess that means no wedding night.”

Paul froze in astonishment.

She gave a huff of laughter and lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Well, we’d never talked about it. So I was just wondering…but I guess not.”

“You want to…”

Although her voice and smile were teasing, he thought he glimpsed a self-conscious expression in her eyes. “I told you before, I haven’t been nursing passionate fantasies about you, so no need to worry about that. We both know that’s not what this marriage is about. But I wouldn’t say no to sex. You’re a good-looking guy, and I’m sure you know what you’re doing in bed.”

For one of the very few times in his life, Paul was completely speechless.

She laughed, the rippling sound just slightly strained. “But it wasn’t part of the deal, and I had no expectations that it would happen. Just thought I’d throw it out there.”

Trying to collect his wildly scattered thoughts, studied her closely. She was doing a really good job of coming across as worldly and blasé about this conversation, but he didn’t think her ironic distance was quite real. Beneath her habitual invulnerable demeanor, he guessed she might be a little embarrassed.

With this recognition in mind, he forced himself to temper his natural reaction—which would have been to ask her if she was completely insane and demand what the hell she was thinking with such an inappropriate suggestion.

Instead, he tightened his lips and said in a mostly even tone, “I hadn’t realized that was even on the table.”

“Yeah,” she said with another huff of very dry laughter, “I see that. It’s really not a big deal. I mean, that would be going way beyond the call of duty for you. I know I’m not your type. Although I didn’t know men turned down sex when it was offered.”

Paul felt flustered, and he didn’t like feeling that way. He had honestly never thought about Emily in a sexual way, except for the occasional looks of absent appreciation in the last few months that were second-nature for most men. But now that she’d brought it up—now that he knew sex was a possibility tonight—his body gave a little clench of interest.

Sex was sex. And, although she certainly wasn’t his type, Emily was an attractive, vibrant girl.

A seventeen-year-old girl who was dying.

Feeling like a degenerate—a flustered degenerate who had let things spiral way too far out of his control in the last few days—Paul shook his head and said with impressive mildness, “It’s not that. It’s not that I could never be interested. But, Emily, you’re…”

Seventeen. And dying.

Emily sighed deeply, but she managed to smile at him. “I get it, and it’s totally fine. You’ve done more than enough to help me out. It really was just a passing thought.”

He peered at her, trying to figure out whether that was true. While he was glad she was backing away from the idea, he didn’t want to act like an ass when she'd already had a really hard time.

“I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks,” she added. She’d been studying him too, and she seemed to have discovered something in his expression, although he’d thought his face was suitably impassive. “If I’m still doing all right, health-wise, maybe we can put the possibility back on the table then. Not for sure—but just to consider.”

He nodded. “Sounds good.”

There would still be virtually no chance he’d be comfortable with the idea of sex with her, even after she’d turned eighteen, but he was committing to nothing.

At least it was a way out of this conversation.

“I’m going to bed. But you know, Paul,” Emily murmured, standing up and brushing out the wrinkles in her dress. She was smiling now—tired but smiling—and she seemed to have gotten over whatever awkwardness she’d felt. “For a bad boy, you really are kind of old-fashioned.”

Her tone was very soft, not critical or derisive at all, but he stiffened at the words anyway.

“It wasn’t an insult,” she said, laughing at his expression. “Seriously. I’ve discovered that I like you a lot more than I thought. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he told her, watching as she walked back into the cottage.

He didn’t get up immediately as he tried to mentally feel his way back to calm water.

"Oh, by the way," she said, coming back out onto the terrace without warning. "I forgot to ask."

Paul looked over at her questioningly.

"I try to never act obnoxiously girly, but do you think…do you think I looked pretty today?"

She'd cried her makeup off, the waves in her hair had gotten a little frizzy, and her dress was wrinkled. But Paul wasn't crazy enough to tell her anything except, "You looked absolutely beautiful today."

It happened to be the truth, and it prompted a glowing smile on Emily's face. "Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said as she left the terrace again.

He’d felt like a fool ten times over today, and that was something he’d always gone to great lengths to avoid.

He’d made a mess of most of his life—constantly letting down the few people who had ever really loved him. Trying to turn it around, to do something worthwhile with his life, made him feel like a frustrated Prometheus, pushing a massive stone eternally uphill, only to have it roll back down when he got it to the top.

But he wasn’t—he wouldn’t be—the total loser his mother had feared he might be.

He would work hard at his new job and ensure his mother’s legacy.

He would testify against his father, no matter how much it felt like a betrayal.

And he would take care of Emily, since she had no one else to help her.

He didn’t have a lot of experience with such things, but he was determined to see it through to the end.

For once, he was going to do something right.

THREE

Emily had the worst headache she’d ever had in her life.

The pain throbbed at her temples and at the back of her head. She couldn’t seem to think clearly, and her eyes would sometimes lose focus. Even her stomach churned sickeningly, although that could have been caused by several cups of black coffee and the double-dose of aspirin she’d taken earlier.

She’d had headaches before, of course, but she couldn’t remember her head ever hurting like this.

She tried to focus on the questions being asked of her, and she articulated her responses as clearly and efficiently as possible so her recorded deposition would be strong, official documentation of her testimony. As the minutes and hours past, however, she had more and more trouble thinking about anything but her headache.

She sat in the same large conference room in the law office where she and Paul had signed the pre-nup. She was dressed, once again, in her best suit, although this time she’d paired it with a little vintage blouse she’d found in a thrift store. She’d hoped to look as mature and professional as possible when she met with the staff from the U.S. attorney’s office. Now her suit felt too tight, though, and the pins she’d used to secure her hair were poking her painfully in the head.

She had to fight the urge to yank out the pins and rub her scalp with her fingers. She’d slipped her high heels off under the table, but she hadn’t taken off her jacket. She’d been too hot for the last hour, and she was afraid she might have sweated through her thin blouse.

“Mrs. Marino,” an assistant U.S. attorney named Bill Hathaway asked from across the table, “Can you tell us what he said in the conversation you overheard?”

“He was threatening the other man, Jud Bentley, about a shipment of drugs he’d been cheated on,” Emily replied, after closing her eyes briefly and taking a slow sip of water.

“Can you repeat the exact words, please?”

Emily glanced over to a chair on the other side of the room, where Paul was observing the proceedings. He’d insisted on being present, although she would have been more comfortable without his sharp, observant gaze on her the entire time. Their eyes met briefly now, but she couldn’t really tell what he was thinking.

She searched her memory and repeated the words Vincent Marino had spoken in that conversation—a conversation she would now give anything to unhear.

When she’d finished her answer, she rubbed her temples as discreetly as she could, trying to ease the throbbing in her head. For a moment, it hurt so much a wave of heat slammed into her. Her stomach lurched dangerously.

She took a deep shaky breath and tried to pull herself together. They had a lot of ground to cover in this deposition. She knew why they needed to do this, even though she was still on the docket to testify at Marino’s trial the month after next.

There was no guarantee that she’d be alive at the trial, and they needed an official record of her testimony that could be offered in lieu of her live body in the witness stand.

But it wasn’t any fun. She knew the deposition would probably take a good chunk of the day, and later she would have to be questioned by the defense attorney. He and his associate were here now, farther down the table, busily taking notes as she talked.

She could ask to cut it short because of her headache and pick up again next week, but she’d rather just get it over with today.

She put a discreet hand on her belly and tried to breathe deeply, fighting past the pain and nausea so she could pay attention.

“So, Mrs. Marino,” Hathaway continued, looking down at his notes before asking his next question, “Can you tell us what happened after you overheard—”

“I think we need a break,” Paul interrupted. He’d been peering at her closely and had evidently drawn his own conclusions.

The lawyers from Paul’s law firm who were present in the conference room responded immediately, looking up and putting down their notes. But Hathaway’s face flickered with annoyance before he managed to say politely, “Of course. If Mrs. Marino needs another break—”

“I don’t need a break,” Emily interrupted, glaring in Paul’s direction although her eyes were so blurry she couldn’t really focus on him. “We just had a break not long ago.”

Paul had stood up, the charcoal gray suit he wore smoothly following his motion. He normally dressed more casually but, like her, he must have wanted to convey a professional appearance today. He gave her one more quick look of scrutiny before he turned back to Hathaway. “We need more than fifteen minutes. Should we start up again at about twelve-thirty?”

Hathaway obviously wasn’t pleased by the delay, but he said, “That’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Emily objected, trying to get her shoes back on so she could stand up. “I told you—”

Paul completely ignored her. He turned to an administrative assistant from the law firm and asked, “Is there somewhere comfortable she can rest?”

Emily almost sputtered in indignation at such high-handed behavior, but her head throbbed too much for her to form a coherent argument. Somehow, without her conscious agreement or volition, she was shuffled into a small lounge that was obviously used for clients of the prestigious firm, since it had a bookshelf full of novels, a stack of current magazines, a television and DVD player, and several plush couches and easy chairs.

Paul closed the door behind him, shutting out the hovering administrative assistant. He scanned her face closely and reached out to put his hand on her forehead.

She jerked away from him, regretting the move immediately since it hurt her head so much she almost gagged. “I don’t have a fever,” she managed to snap, “Stop fussing.”

She hated feeling weak and helpless, and she hated having Paul treat her like an invalid. She might have an incurable virus, but she was still an intelligent, capable person who was equipped to decide the shape of her life. However long that life lasted.

“It doesn’t feel like you have a fever,” Paul agreed, sounding just faintly impatient, his gray eyes searching her face. “So what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I have a headache. It’s no big deal. I want to just get this deposition over with, and I don’t appreciate you ignoring my wishes.”

“You needed a break.” When she started to argue, he went on, “Going on when you obviously feel so sick is counterproductive. You need to be clear and coherent if your testimony is going to be convincing.”

He was right, and she resented him for it.

She didn’t resent him for prioritizing his father’s trial over her. She wasn’t a fool, and she knew what was most important to him. He had been incredibly generous with her, and she appreciated it, but she knew he’d not done it out of any tender regard. He liked her well enough. He felt sorry for her, and she was sure he didn’t want to see her suffer.

But if it came down to a choice between pleasing her and ensuring a successful conviction against his father, he would always choose the conviction. She didn't blame him for that.

She did, however, resent him for treating her like a child, like she was too sick to make a good decision. And for throwing logic in her face when she’d worked up some perfectly good righteous indignation.

She tried to think of an objection, but she started to feel dizzy so she went to sit in the corner of a big sofa instead.

Evidently assuming she’d accepted this break, Paul asked, “Do you need anything? Aspirin? Something to eat? More coffee?”

She almost shuddered at the thought of food or coffee. “I took some aspirin earlier. Just some water, thanks.”

Then she was left in blessed silence when he left the lounge.

She leaned against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. It didn’t seem fair. She only had a limited number of days left to be alive, and she had to spend one of them with this horrible headache.

In just a minute, she heard someone enter the room, and when she opened her eyes she saw Paul reenter with an expensive bottle of sparkling water in one hand and an old-fashioned glass bottle of Coke in the other.

She hadn’t had regular Coke in a glass bottle in years, and she reached for it instinctively. He’d already popped the top, so she took a sip, the sweet, bubbly liquid a balm in her mouth and throat after the hot coffee she’d been drinking all morning. She took a shaky breath and then another sip.

Without speaking, Paul had set the water down on a side table and then walked over to shut the blinds on the glass wall that looked out onto the expansive common area of the office suite. He then leaned over to turn on a small lamp in one corner of the room before turning off the overhead lights.

The room was left in dim shadows, lit only by the small lamp in the corner. The darkness was a relief. She hadn’t realized the florescent lights had been grating on her head, but she knew now that they had.

She took another swig of her Coke and looked up at Paul a little dazedly.

“Close your eyes for a while,” he instructed. “You have more than an hour to rest. If you aren’t feeling better then, we can reschedule for another day.”

He didn’t sound gentle or affectionate. He mostly sounded matter-of-fact and a little bossy.  He was giving her that look of intense scrutiny again—the one where he seemed to search for signs of her impending demise. She didn’t like that look at all, since it defined her as an invalid and not a whole person. But at least it was better than the mild gentleness he’d been using on her recently.

She’d rather be a project of his than an object of pity.

“I don’t want to reschedule,” she mumbled. “I want to get this over with.”

“I know you do. Get some rest.”

She didn’t understand his tone, and he left the room before she could read his expression.

She was relieved when she was left in the darkened room by herself, with just her Coke and a couch.

She finished her soda. Then she couldn’t stand it anymore, so she pulled the pins out of her hair, finger-combing it loose and finally able to rub her aching scalp. She took off her shoes and jacket and curled up on her side on the sofa.

It wasn’t a dignified position, but Paul wasn’t going to let anyone barge in and bother her. And it felt so good to lie down and close her eyes.

She didn’t go to sleep, and her thoughts were a confused jumble of images and feelings, all intensified by the aching of her head.

She thought back to her wedding two days ago, still hardly believing the lush, glowing beauty of it was real. It had seemed so much like a romantic daydream she’d thought she’d long outgrown.

She shouldn’t have been so affected by it. She shouldn’t have cried. She wasn’t one of those sappy romantics. She’d talked herself out of sentimental expectations a long time ago.

At least, she thought she had.

She knew the storybook effect of her wedding had been manufactured, but it was something—and she could have died without anything.

She would have liked for her father to be there. Thinking about him now, she felt emotion swell up in her throat, and she almost started to cry.

But the crying hurt her head too much, so she forced the grief back—thinking about her testimony, about the rest of the items on her list, and about how to convince Paul to treat her as a person and not a project.

She must have dozed off at some point, although it felt like she was conscious the whole hour. She was jarred into awareness by the sound of a voice saying her name and then a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Emily,” Paul murmured again. “How are you?”

She blinked up at him, completely disoriented. Instinctively, she sat up, vaguely embarrassed that he’d caught her in such a vulnerable position.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, as the sudden move made her head throb dizzyingly.

Paul had sat down in a chair next to the couch, but he said, “We’ll reschedule this. You need to get home.”

“No,” she argued, glaring at him as best she could. “Just give me a minute.”

“Here,” Paul said, offering her a new bottle of ice-cold Coke and then gesturing at the bag he’d set on the coffee table. “And I brought some sandwiches. You should eat something.”

She took the soda gratefully but made a face at the sandwiches. “I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. Try to eat something anyway. It will help your stomach, if nothing else.” He reached into the bag and asked, “Turkey, ham, or roast beef?”

“Turkey,” she mumbled, annoyed with him but too shaky to put up a fight.

Paul handed her the sandwich and then took another sandwich out for himself, helping himself to the bottle of water he’d brought in earlier since she’d left it untouched on the side table.

They ate in silence, and Emily was able to finish half of her sandwich. Paul had been right. The food eased the churning of her stomach, although it didn’t help the pounding of her head.

When they were done, Emily was able to get up without feeling dizzy, and she insisted she was ready to start up the deposition again.

Paul gave her a dubious look, but he didn’t object.

He walked out of the lounge with her, putting a hand on her back to guide her toward the conference room.

She resisted. “I need to go to the bathroom first.”

Paul adjusted his direction, and they were walking to the restrooms when they passed the pretty receptionist Emily remembered from the day they’d signed their pre-nup, the one Paul had appeared to be flirting with.

The receptionist glanced away from them now, but not before Emily had caught an expression of amused curiosity.

Since she wasn’t at her full thinking capacity, it took her a minute to figure out what that expression meant. When she got into the bathroom and stared into the mirror over the sink, she realized what the receptionist had been thinking.

Emily’s hair was hanging in messy, rumpled waves around her face. Her blouse was wrinkled and disarranged. And her cheeks were unnaturally flushed, probably from dozing on the sofa for so long.

She blushed hotly as she realized that the receptionist had thought Emily and Paul were indulging in a little sexy-time behind the closed door of the lounge. They were supposed to be newlyweds, after all, and the receptionist wouldn’t know Emily’s condition or the terms of their marriage.

It embarrassed her more than it should have, probably because it was so far from the truth.

The receptionist wouldn’t know Paul had absolutely no interest in Emily’s body, even when she’d offered it to him.

* * *

Emily made it through another hour of the deposition. But, by then, her head was pounding so painfully that, although she objected when Paul called an end to the proceedings, she couldn’t help but be a little grateful.

They rescheduled for the following morning. Tomorrow was Saturday, but Paul's lawyers would accommodate any of his wishes, and Hathaway and the defense attorney clearly just wanted to get this done.

Emily went to the bathroom one more time before they left the law offices. When she came out, Paul was on the phone, but he hung up as she approached.

“Ready?” he asked.

She frowned at him. “I wish you hadn’t done that. I told you more than once that I wanted to get it done today.”

“I know what you wanted, but it wasn’t going to work out. Your answers were getting less and less coherent. We needed to reschedule.”

She stuck out her chin as she studied his impassive face. “Well, I appreciate your absolute commitment to the perfect quality of my testimony, but I was doing fine. Since I’m the one giving the testimony, I should be able to decide whether I’m up to doing it or not.”

Something tightened on his face as he pressed the elevator down button, and she wondered if he was going to get angry. He’d been impatient with her before. He’d been exasperated or coolly patronizing. But she couldn’t remember him being truly angry with her. She almost wanted to see it, since it would be proof that he was treating her like a normal person.

His voice was level and controlled, however, when he replied, “I would let you decide for yourself if you weren’t so ridiculously stubborn.”

She gasped in outrage, her anger only serving to make her head hurt even worse. “You’re calling me stubborn! You’re the one who—”

“Emily, enough,” Paul interrupted curtly. “The decision is made.”

She responded automatically to the clipped authority in his tone and then hated herself for doing so. She was feeling dizzy again, though, and she just couldn’t put up the fight his behavior deserved.

She shook with indignation and with physical weakness when she got on the elevator with him. She moved to the opposite side without thinking, not wanting to be close to him.

She’d lived most of her life doing what she wanted, making her own choices, taking care of herself. Even her father had basically given her free rein, partly from trust and partly because he just didn’t know how to control her.

The fact that Paul thought he had the right to make decisions for her—now, when she had so little time left to live—and that he was somehow capable of making her abide by them was baffling, unnerving, and infuriating.

She told herself it was just the headache. Had she been in better condition, he wouldn’t have been able to exert such presumptuous authority over her.

The elevator stopped two floors down from the law firm, and two businessmen got on with them.

One of them was middle-aged and forgettable, but the other was young, slick, and very well-dressed. He also seemed to have poured cologne all over him.

The scent itself wasn’t unpleasant, but it was so strong Emily almost gagged. She took a step away from the man, but she was soon against the wall. The small, confined space just intensified the oppressive fragrance.

She prayed the elevator would descend quickly, but it stopped two floors lower and three more people got on.

Now Paul was on the opposite side of the elevator, and the cologne-soaked man had moved even closer to her by necessity, trapping her in the back corner of the elevator, swallowed up in the sickening scent.

Her head pounded blindingly and her stomach rolled. She clung to the rail and tried to breathe, but breathing just made the smell worse.

The elevator stopped again. Emily had to turn her head to face the wall, desperately trying not to be sick.

She wasn’t looking at the door when the elevator stopped, and she was startled when she heard Paul’s voice say, “Excuse me. My wife needs to get out. Emily?”

The people on the elevator looked surprised, since they hadn’t thought she and Paul were together. But they made room for Emily, who gratefully stumbled out of the elevator onto the twelfth floor.

Paul must have pushed the button for this floor to get them off the elevator as soon as possible.

Emily swayed on her feet dangerously, raggedly sucking in air.

Paul put a supportive arm around her. It was purely functional—not intimate or affectionate—but Emily appreciated it. She clung to his suit jacket and leaned her head against his shoulder, shaking with suppressed sobs. Paul smelled familiar to her now, a light scent that was clean, masculine, and pleasant. She didn’t think it was strong enough for cologne. It might have just been the combination of his laundered clothes and his soap.

“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded, when she’d managed to pull it together. “It can’t be the virus. My aunt never had anything but fevers.”

“It might not be the virus,” he said quietly. “It may just be a headache—from stress or from dehydration after all the traveling we’ve done or from who knows what. If a headache is bad enough, it can knock you out.”

She took a shuddering breath, strangely comforted by his mild words. Maybe it was just a headache. Maybe it wasn’t really a sign that her death was coming sooner than it was supposed to.

“Anyway,” Paul said, reaching over to push the down button to the elevator, “We need to get you home.”

Because she hadn’t wanted to be where people would always be hovering and waiting for her to die, they were staying at an apartment that Paul’s mother had owned in a luxury building in Center City, instead of her big house in the neighborhood. It wasn’t really Emily’s home.

But it was as close to one as she had anymore.

* * *

When they got back to the apartment, Emily went to her room, changed into a t-shirt and sweats, and crawled into bed.

She’d just closed her eyes when she heard a tap on the door and Paul came in. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie and had opened the top buttons of his white dress shirt. He carried a prescription pill bottle and a bottle of sparkling water.

“What’s that?” Emily asked, hating how her voice cracked, making her sound as weak as she felt.

“I called Dr. Franklin earlier, before we left the law office, and he sent over a prescription.” He read the label and dumped out one large white pill. “It’s a painkiller for your headache.”

Dr. Franklin had been her primary physician for the last month. While Emily had never known a doctor who would immediately send over medication at a patient’s call, she assumed the Pauls of the world got different treatment than the Emilys of the world. She wasn’t about to turn down anything that might make her head feel better.

She accepted the pill and swallowed it with the water he’d handed her. Then she relaxed back against her pillow and closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she mumbled, when she could feel him still standing and looking at her.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said, before leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

The medication must have been some sort of narcotic because in only a few minutes the pain started to fade and her head began to swim. Every time she moved she felt a little dizzy, but she figured out that, if she lay perfectly still on her back and closed her eyes, she wouldn’t have those whirling feelings.

So she lay motionless, and it wasn’t long until she fell asleep.

* * *

She woke up groggy and disoriented.

She looked over at the clock and stared at the digital numbers that said 6:42. She blinked a few times, thinking she must have woken up a little earlier than normal that morning. She tried to remember what day it was but couldn’t figure it out.

Then she wondered why she was wearing a t-shirt and sweats instead of her pajamas or nightgown. Then she wondered why there was a green bottle of sparkling water on her nightstand.

She sat up, feeling strangely fuzzy. She was conscious of something good though. Something really good.

She finally figured out her head wasn’t hurting anymore, and the absence of the throbbing pain was a relief so palpable she felt almost giddy.

She took a sip of the water and was vaguely surprised when it was still fairly cool. She stared at the clock, trying to figure out what the numbers meant.

Then she was finally hit with the revelation. It was six in the evening, not the morning. She’d just woken up from what had been a very long nap—almost four hours long.

She stumbled to her feet and stood for a minute to get her balance. The apartment was perfectly silent. Eerily so. It felt like she’d been abandoned by the entire world.

She walked down the hall barefoot, looking in rooms, and finally saw that the door to Paul’s office was only halfway closed.

She peeked in and saw that he was working at his computer, focused intently on whatever he was typing.

He was now the Assistant Vice President of Management at his mother’s company—a corporate position created just for him—but evidently he was able to do a lot of work from home, since he’d spent the last two evenings working. From the brief glimpses she’d had of the work on his desk, it looked deadly dull to her, but he seemed absolutely committed to completing it all with as much care and efficiency as he could muster.

A far cry from partying all night like he used to.

Despite his intent focus, it didn’t take long for Paul to notice her presence in his doorway.

He smiled when he saw her, but it was that mild smile she hated, the one that reminded her she was dying. “How’s your headache?”

“It’s better. It’s totally gone.”

“Good.” He sat and looked at her for a minute. Then asked, “Did you need anything?”

She suddenly realized she was interrupting his work. She’d come to find him instinctively, since she’d felt lonely and disoriented in the apartment by herself. She was perfectly capable of amusing herself, however, and she definitely didn’t want to be a nuisance. “No, I’m fine. Is it all right if I find something to eat in the kitchen? I’m kind of hungry now.”

“Sure,” Paul said, looking with a surprised expression at his wrist. “Make yourself at home.”

She murmured thanks and turned to leave when she realized he’d gotten up. “I can make do myself,” she told him, “You don’t have to come with me.”

“I need to find something for dinner too, unless you’d rather be alone.”

“No.” She smiled in pleased surprise, “I don’t need to be alone.”

The truth was she was glad of his company, even for something as mundane as scouring the kitchen for something to eat. She was used to being surrounded by people she knew—her friends in the neighborhood, her classmates, her aunt.

All of the people around her now were strangers except for Paul. She could call Chris or her other friends if she wanted, but it wasn’t the same. Their world seemed so far away from hers now, and being around them hurt, reminded her of her old life, the one that was coming to an early end.

If she wanted real company, Paul was her only option. While it would be wrong to expect him to spend all of his time keeping her company, she was kind of glad he’d decided to come eat with her.

The kitchen in the apartment wasn’t really very large, but it was more luxurious than any kitchen Emily had ever been in before. She felt like a plebian in her sloppy t-shirt with no bra as she opened the top-of-the-line, stainless-steel refrigerator.

It was full, and everything was neatly organized on the shelves and trays.

“Do you have someone who cooks for you?” she asked, looking back at Paul curiously.

He had opened a cute little cubby-hole in the cabinets and pulled out a fresh loaf of bread. “I have Ruth, who comes in and cleans, and she usually leaves me things to eat that I can just warm up.”

He came to join her, and together they investigated the contents of the refrigerator.

Eventually they decided on homemade chicken and brown rice soup that just needed to be warmed up and sandwiches made from an assortment of gourmet sliced meats and cheeses they discovered in the deli drawer.

They didn’t chat much as they prepared their meal and ate it on the stools at the kitchen bar, but Emily didn’t mind. The quiet didn’t feel awkward. They spoke when they had something to say, but they didn’t feel compelled to talk for the sake of talking. It felt almost companionable.

She was finishing up her soup when Paul asked, “So what’s next on your list? After we finish the deposition tomorrow, we’ll have the rest of the weekend to do something, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I was thinking about that. There are a few things on the list that I can do here in Philadelphia, so I thought I could just go out on my own tomorrow afternoon and Sunday and get them crossed off. There’s no reason you have to do everything with me.”

Paul frowned. “I don’t mind. What were you thinking of doing?”

“Just...” She shook her head, foolishly embarrassed by a couple of items on the list. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m happy to do them on my own. That way you can catch up on work or do something fun yourself.”

“I told you I don’t mind going with you. I don’t like the idea of your running around the city on your own.”

Her mouth fell open. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve been going wherever I want on my own since I was thirteen.”

“I know that,” he said, his eyes narrowing with what looked like disapproval. “But it’s not safe for you right now. If you don’t want me around, then I can send a couple of bodyguards with you.”

“No,” she objected, almost choking on her last bite of sandwich. “I want to get some sort of satisfaction out of doing my list. I don’t want to rush through it with a bunch of hulking men glaring at me. I’m going by myself.”

Paul was already finished with his meal, but he put his bottle of water down and let out a slow breath, as if he were restraining his impulse to be angry. “It’s not safe, Emily. My father could still try to kill you, and I’m not going to put you in danger.”

“It’s not your choice to make!” She tried to keep her voice as level as his, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “Tomorrow, I’ll have finished the deposition so it won’t matter if I get killed.” When he made a strangled sound in response, she hurried on, “I just mean it won’t affect the case. I’ll have fulfilled my side of our agreement, so you can’t keep me locked away under guard.”

“I don’t want to keep you locked away.” His voice sounded a little rough, and she realized he’d gotten angry after all. It was almost a relief—that he was treating her like a real person. “But we can at least take basic precautions. You never minded my protection before.”

She scowled. “I never thought I needed it, but I was all right with it when I thought I had a long life waiting for me, or when I knew I still needed to testify. Those things aren't true anymore. I’m trying to get through my list, and I need a little freedom to do it.”

“You can do your list. I’m not stopping you. In fact, I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to control me.” Her voice had gotten louder and shriller, and resentment buzzed hotly in her ears.

“Emily, you’re being ridiculous.” His face and shoulders were tense with whatever emotion he was suppressing. “I don’t want to control you. I want to keep you safe. I promised that I would protect you. Have I ever given you cause to think I’ll go back on my word?”

He hadn’t. Not once had Paul not kept his word to her. But that didn’t make his presumption and arrogance any more palatable now.

“I don’t want to be protected. I want to be treated like a normal person.”

“For God’s sake, Emily,” Paul growled, clearly at the end of his patience. “What the hell do you—” He bit off his words and turned away from her. Took a few slow breaths.

When he turned back toward her, she knew—she knew—he’d remembered she was dying.

And apparently you didn't yell at a dying girl.

“Emily,” he said gently, “We can go through the items on your list together this weekend, with adequate security precautions, or you can do them yourself, escorted by a bodyguard. Those are your options. You agreed that I would protect you. This is the only way I can do so, unless you want out completely.”

Before she could do more than sputter a few times in outrage, he’d gotten up and walked out of the kitchen.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to punch something. She wanted to claw lines down Paul’s stubborn, infuriating face.

She looked down at her left hand and suddenly remembered she was married to the bastard.

Despite her automatic reaction, she didn’t chase after him and throw a fit, since she knew it would be immature and counter-productive. Instead, she put up the food and dishes, more from habit than from any concern that it wouldn’t be taken care of.

Then she walked back to her room, noticing that Paul’s office door was closed tightly.

She glared at it as she passed, but she didn’t try to enter.

Instead, she grabbed her purse from her room and simply made her way to the front door of the apartment.

In the hall, she was greeted by a big man in a suit. A bodyguard. She thought she remembered Paul had called him Tim.

“I’m just running out for a few minutes,” she said with a smile.

He gave her a friendly enough look, but he put his hand out. “Just a minute, Mrs. Marino.”

She stood in outraged shock as he made a call and quietly asked if it was all right that she was leaving without anyone escorting her.

The person on the other end—undoubtedly Paul—must have said no.

“I’m sorry, miss…missus,” Tim said, looking awkward in the face of her visible indignation. “I can call someone to go with you if you want. But otherwise…”

He trailed off, and Emily was hard pressed not to scream and hit something.

This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t trapped in this damned penthouse apartment.

She knew Paul wouldn’t genuinely trap her here. She could leave any time she wanted. She could leave the marriage, his protection, their agreement.

She didn’t want to leave all that, though. She just wanted to go out for a while by herself.

It wasn’t Tim’s fault, so she managed not to snarl at him. She just turned around and went back inside.

She was stewing. Shaking with resentment.

As she passed the office door, it opened, and Paul stuck his head out. “Sorry,” he said, as if his behavior was somehow normal. “Just let me know if you want to go do something, and we can get someone to go with you so it’s safe.”

Instead of expressing her rising fury, she was suddenly hit with a brainstorm. “Am I at least allowed to go for a swim?” She made sure to sound unhappy, almost pouty, since he’d suspect something if she seemed all right with this situation.

His eyebrows drew together, making those two little lines on his forehead. “Of course. There’s the plunge pool on the terrace, if you don’t think it’s too cool—”

“I wanted to do laps. Isn’t there a bigger pool?”

“Oh, yeah, downstairs. Sure you can go. Do you mind if someone goes with you?”

She made a face and mumbled, “Fine.”

Evidently, her performance was convincing. He didn’t seem remotely suspicious as she left him and headed to her room.

There, she sat down on her bed, forcing down her resentment so she could think clearly. She pulled out her list from the drawer next to her bed and looked down at it.

For years, Emily had done what she’d liked, gone where she wanted, made things happen at her own devising. And nothing—not locked doors, not fear, not the authority of someone else—had kept her out if she'd wanted in.

There was one thing on her list that she could do tonight, alone, not far from the city.

Paul wouldn’t be happy, but he wasn’t in control of her.

And she knew how she would get out of the building.

.* * *

It ended up being quite simple.

Had Emily been trying to get into the apartment, she had to admit she wouldn’t have been able to do it. But she wanted to get out, and she’d always been good at getting things done.

She put on the one swimsuit she had with her—a red tankini—and then she pulled a short, red knit dress over it for a cover-up and slid on a pair of sandals.

She thought about bringing a bag with a change of clothes and some other supplies that could come in handy, but the bodyguard might think it was strange if she’d carried a bag. So she just put her phone, some cash, and her list in a pocket of her dress, found a big towel in the linen closet, and walked casually out the front door of the apartment.

Tim was still in the hall when she emerged.

“Paul said it was okay for me to go down to the pool to do laps,” she said with a smile, when he immediately straightened up at her presence.

“Of course, Mrs. Marino,” Tim said. “He already let me know you were going. Mark is waiting downstairs. Just take the elevator down to the pool level.”

“Thanks.”

She gave him a bright smile and felt a little guilty when he smiled back, looking like he appreciated her friendliness.

She wasn’t really being friendly.

There was a private elevator that went up to the penthouse apartment. It seemed a ridiculous indulgence to Emily, but it did make security simpler. She descended to the pool level and stepped off to see another bodyguard, evidently named Mark, waiting for her.

She gave him a breezy greeting. The indoor pool serviced the entire building, but there was no one else here tonight.

She’d explored the whole building the other day, so she’d known what to expect from the pool deck. And all the adjoining rooms.

She spread her towel out on a chaise and stalled a little, pretending to take off her sandals. To make it look convincing, she should probably dive into the pool and do some laps.

But she didn’t want to make a trek out of the city in a wet swimsuit and with wet hair.

So she fiddled around a little and then looked over at Mark sheepishly. “Is there a convenient bathroom? I should have gone before I came down.”

“Sure. Just there.” He gestured toward a door across the pool from where she sat.

She rebuckled her sandals and then got up and walked around the pool to the women’s room. Mark came with her, which wasn’t surprising, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to follow her inside.

She’d noticed the bathroom when she’d been looking around the building before.

This door led from the pool deck, but there was another door to the restroom into a hallway.

She immediately walked through the bathroom and out the other door, knowing she wouldn’t have much time before Mark caught on.

It was a back hallway that led from the lobby to the housekeeping areas, but there was also a nearby door that led down to the building’s main parking deck.

She ducked into the stairwell and flew down the stairs.

The parking deck was filled with expensive cars, but it was used by the general population of the building, and the stairs and elevators didn’t access the Paul’s apartment, so there was only minimal security.

She walked around against the wall toward the garage exit. There was one security guard. He was employed by the building’s homeowners association—not the security firm Paul used—so he wasn’t as experienced or professional.

It was probably a fairly boring job, hanging out all night with the cars and checking out anyone who drove in. The young man was leaning back in his chair and watching a game on a small television.

He didn’t see Emily, even when she edged over near the big garage door. He would be conditioned to listen for cars coming in or out—not for a lone woman sneaking out of the building.

Emily had to wait a few minutes, but eventually one of the building’s tenants returned from an evening out.

When the car drove in, she ducked out.

As she walked quickly down the sidewalk, away from the building, she wanted to hug herself with pure excitement.

She was flushed and breathless from the adrenalin generated by her escape, but she also felt victorious—almost exhilarated—from managing to get out of the building undetected.

Now she just needed to find a cab.

It wasn’t even nine yet, so the streets were still crowded. The first couple of cabs she gestured for didn’t stop, but finally one pulled over.

She was about to get in when she felt a strong hand on her arm, swinging her around to face a very unhappy Paul.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, waving for the cab to drive on and then glaring down at her with eyes like hard steel.

Emily blinked up at him. Her blood throbbed in her veins, from her earlier excitement paired with the jolt of shock at being stopped so abruptly. For some reason, Paul’s language had startled her too. While he obviously wasn’t any sort of prude, she’d never heard him use the word “fuck” before.

She opened her mouth, but any words she might have said stuck in her throat.

“Are you insane?” he rasped, his voice thick with anger and a muscle twitching visibly in his jaw. “Do you want to get killed?”

“How did you catch me?” While the question was hardly the most relevant issue, it was the only thing she could think of to say. She was shaking a little, from adrenalin or shock or something else.

“There are cameras in that parking deck. When Mark realized you’d snuck away, we immediately did a search. Now tell me where the hell you were going!” He was still holding her upper arm in a tight grip, and now he grabbed her other arm as well. He seemed to be shuddering with barely suppressed rage.

Her first instinct was to be intimidated by his strength and his fierce indignation.  That instinct was immediately followed by absolute outrage, though—not just that he would grab her the way he had but also that he could make her feel so intimidated.

Her teeth almost snapped as she processed a hot flash of responding anger. “I was going to do something on my list. I told you I wanted to do it alone.”

“And I told you that wasn’t an option.” His fingers tightened on her arms until it almost hurt, and he dragged her a little closer to him. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“It’s not your choice to make,” she burst out, struggling to pull out of his grip. “What I do is none of your business!”

Paul seemed to realize he was holding her too tightly, and his fingers loosened on her arms. He also managed to moderate his voice. If anything, though, his eyes were even fiercer when he gritted out, “Yes, it is my business. You’re going to have to accept that. You can leave me and leave this marriage any time you want. But if you don’t, then you’re my responsibility.”

She started to object, instinctively resisting that idea.

“You are my responsibility,” he insisted, staring down at her with such intensity it was like he could somehow see her soul. “Emily, you’re my wife. And, whatever the reasons we got married, that makes you my responsibility.”

Emily stared up at him, trying to process what he was saying. How she felt about it.

“Excuse me, miss.” The voice came from behind her. She turned to see a young man approaching. He looked young—in his twenties—and he was glaring at Paul suspiciously. “Are you all right? Do you need any help?”

She suddenly realized they were having a very private argument in the middle of a public sidewalk. Flustered, she pulled herself out of Paul’s now loose grip. “Yes. He’s my husband. Just a squabble. Thanks, though.”

The man gave Paul a couple more dubious looks as he walked away.

Paul had initially flashed the man an exasperated glance, but he could hardly be angry at a man who’d been willing to intercede when it looked like a woman needed help. “Let’s go inside,” he said, taking her arm gently and starting to walk back toward their building.

This time, Emily didn’t resist.

Completely distracted, she kept looking down at the rings on her hand—the platinum wedding band and the gorgeous antique engagement ring. She was married to Paul—married to him. And she was suddenly hit with the overwhelming realization that it meant more than having a lovely, storybook wedding and living in the same apartment.

They weren’t in love, but he was still her husband. That evidently meant something to Paul. And it should to her too.

Marriage didn’t just mean getting her rings. It meant being tied to this man by mutual bonds of trust and responsibility.

It meant she would never be perfectly free.

“Emily, are you all right?” Paul asked, stopping on the sidewalk just in front of their building.

Emily realized she’d been breathing hard, almost gasping, as she stared down at her rings and tried to come to terms with this relationship.

Taking a deep breath, she nodded and looked up at him. She made herself say, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry.”

Paul blinked. “You are?”

She gave a nervous giggle at his obvious astonishment. “Do you really think I’m so dense that I can’t acknowledge a reasonable point?”

“What convinced you?” he asked, little lines appearing on his forehead. He looked off-stride and just faintly suspicious.

So she told him the truth. “I know I’m being difficult. And I know it’s not fair for me to make things so hard for you when you’re just trying to help. It’s just…” She looked away from him and swallowed hard. “It’s just that everything has changed for me. Nothing is the same. And I just wanted to hold on to something, at least for a little while.”

Her throat felt like it was closing up, and her eyes started to burn, but she managed to finish, “I shouldn’t have tried to sneak out, since I don’t want to leave you. I just wanted…I just want to be me, for as long as I can.”

She hadn’t really meant to spill so much, and she felt horribly self-conscious after she realized what she’d said. She couldn’t look Paul in the eye, but she darted a quick glance up to his face.

He stared at her—not intense or emotional but deeply focused.

After a long, tense silence, he asked, “What were you planning to do tonight?”

Emily lowered her eyes. “I was going to go Lake Collins,” she murmured, referring to a recreational lake not far outside of the city, “To go skinny-dipping. I figured I’d take a cab to a gas station nearby and then walk the rest of the way, since I wouldn’t want a cab driver sitting waiting while I went for a swim.”

Paul was silent for longer than she expected. Then he said, “You can’t go by yourself. I’m sorry. I know you think I’m being paranoid, but I’m absolutely convinced my father is a danger to you, and it’s just too much of a risk. I realize it’s not the same, but what if you and I went out there now, tonight?”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Having all the security around might take some of the thrill out of it, but it’s better than noth—”

“I mean just you and me. I can drive us there.”

Her eyes widened as she gazed up at his impassive face, catching just a tiny hint of uncertainty in his expression. A pressure of emotion tightened in her chest. “Really? That would be okay?”

He nodded.  There was pity in his eyes—she could see it there—but there was also something that looked like understanding. “I think so. Would that feel enough like you?”

She beamed up at him with a wobbly smile. “Yes. I think so. Thank you.”

* * *

They took Paul’s black Porsche, and Emily felt a silly thrill every time someone glanced over to see who was riding in the ludicrously expensive car.

Now that she’d resolved things with Paul and with herself, Emily's excitement about the evening’s activities returned in full force. She pushed all heavy thoughts out of her mind and allowed herself to enjoy it.

Once they got out of the downtown area, Paul picked up his speed. He let her choose their music on his sophisticated satellite radio, and she turned the volume up loud.

She had a really good time—speeding through the mostly empty roads at night and singing loudly to all the songs she knew, even the cheesy ones.

Before, she might have been self-conscious about being so uninhibited with Paul, since he might think she was foolish or childish. She just didn’t care as much about that now, though. Knowing you were going to die changed your perspective. Paul smiled over at her sometimes, so she didn’t think he thought she was too silly.

He didn’t try to make small talk or get in the way of her fun, and she was in high spirits when they got to the lake.

The recreation areas around the lake were officially closed, but Paul didn’t let that stop him. Instead of trying to get through the main gates—which were locked—Paul simply drove around the gates on the grass, maneuvering through some picnic tables, around a swing-set, and in between various trash cans until he could get back to the road that led down to the lake.

Emily had been clapping at Paul’s improvisation, and it wasn’t until he parked the car right in front of the sandy beach area that she realized she was here to go skinny-dipping.

Paul had turned down the volume of the music, and now he looked over at her with a little smile. “You ready?”

She nodded resolutely, grabbed her towel, and climbed out of the car. Paul got out too and walked halfway down the beach with her, until she stopped and leaned down to unbuckle her sandals. “You’re not going to watch, are you?” she asked, her heart starting to beat a little faster.

Paul gave a huff of amusement. “No. I won’t watch.” He turned his back to her and the lake, facing toward the car instead. “Is this okay? Nothing is likely to happen, but I’d rather not be too far away.”

“That’s fine,” she told him, taking off her sandals and then pulling off her little dress and dropping it on the sand.

It was a lovely, clear night with a mostly full moon. But there was a slight nip in the air, and Emily felt it as she started to pull off the top of her tankini. Her breasts jiggled from the motion, and her nipples immediately tightened in the air.

She couldn’t help but feel rather self-conscious, stripping with Paul standing only a few feet away. His back was to her, though, and he wasn’t going to look.

She had the bottom of her swimsuit halfway down her legs when Paul began to speak, startling her so much she gave a little squeak.

Paul had been starting to say, “Is it—” But at her squeak, he broke off his words and asked, “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” she said, yanking her suit off her ankles, “You scared me. I’m naked. Don’t turn around.”

“I’m not going to turn around,” he assured her, laughing low in his throat. “I was just going to ask if it was too cold for this tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m not going to swim for hours, anyway.” She faced the water of the lake and took a deep breath, the breeze blowing against her bare skin and making her feel oddly vulnerable. “Okay. I’m going in.”

“Have fun.”

She walked to the water and started to wade in. She squeaked again as her ankles were sloshed with cold water.

“Cold?” Paul asked.

She sucked in a breath and shot a look over her shoulder, but he was still facing away from her. “Yes. A little. Not too bad.”

She walked in deeper, bracing herself against the cold. When she got deep enough, she dove under all the way.

After just a minute, her body adjusted to the temperature, and she started to enjoy it. She swam underwater some, and then splashed around, reveling in the way the water rippled along her naked skin.

The moon and stars were bright in the dark sky, and she did a length of backstroke so she could gaze up at them. Then she just floated on her back for a few minutes, breathing the fresh air and staring up at the night sky.

She felt almost free.

“How is it?” Paul called from the shore, reminding her of his presence.

She looked over at him. He still stood with his back to the lake. He wore the white dress shirt and gray trousers from the suit he’d had on all day, and the breeze blew the fabric against his strong, lean body.

“It’s great!” she called, laughing out of pure joie de vivre. “I swam in this lake all the time when I was a kid, but it was never quite like this.”

“I wouldn’t imagine so. Don’t get too cold.”

“I’m fine. Just a few more minutes.”

She dolphin-kicked her way farther out into the lake and then treaded water, enjoying the sight of the wooded areas and grassy lawns around the lake, all glazed in the moonlight.

Then she realized her teeth were chattering so she started back toward the shore. She swam slowly, extending the experience for as long as she could. Her breasts jiggled strangely in the water, without any sort of support from a suit, and her hair hung wetly around her face, since she hadn’t thought to pull it back in a ponytail. She felt absolutely wonderful, just the same.

She reached the point where the lake bottom got shallow enough for her to stand up, and she half-walked, half-swam her way toward the beach.

She was about hip-deep in the water when something brushed against her leg, startling her so much she squealed.

“What happened?” Paul demanded, turning around in what was almost certainly an automatic impulse.

She squeaked again and ducked down into the water to hide her breasts from him, more from instinct than from any conscious belief that Paul wanted to leer at her body. “Nothing,” she explained breathlessly, “No crisis. Just a fish or something swam by me and scared me. Now turn around. I’m getting out.”

Paul obediently turned his back to her, and she waded out of the water and onto the sand.

“That was fantastic!” she burst out, dripping with water as she leaned over to pick up her towel. “Oh, my God, I’m so glad we did that!” Her teeth chattered helplessly, but she didn’t care.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, but hurry up and get dressed so we can get you back in the car. You’re shivering.”

She darted him a surprised look, but his back was still toward her, so he must have heard her shivering in her voice. “Okay. Just a second.”

She dried off as well as she could and pulled back on the bottom of her suit. She decided to forgo the tankini top since it would feel binding and restrictive now, and they had a drive back to the city. She just pulled her knit dress over her head.

“Okay,” she said, trying to towel dry some of the wetness out of her hair and step into her sandals at the same time. “All done.”

Paul turned around, and he was smiling at her. For once, his smile looked real.

Spontaneously, just responding to an irresistible instinct, she reached over and gave him a hug. “Thank you,” she said, her mouth muffled by his shirt, “For taking me.”

Paul felt a little stiff, like he had the last time she’d hugged him. He put both of his arms around her this time, however, and actually hugged her back. “You’re welcome.”

She was pulling away, still shivering from being so wet in the brisk air, when he frowned and studied her face. “You’re freezing.”

“Not freezing, but I wouldn’t say no to getting back in the car.”

As they walked, his eyes scanned her in close assessment. She knew he was just looking for signs of her having gotten sick from the cold—since he seemed to be hung up on that idea—but something about the way his gaze came back to her chest a couple of times made her look down at herself.

The cotton of her dress had gotten damp from her hair, and it was clinging resiliently. The thin fabric clearly revealed the unsupported curves of her breasts and the outline of her tight nipples.

She blushed a little—unable to suppress the self-consciousness—but Paul didn’t seem affected by the sight, other than his initial distraction.

He could have the most beautiful women in the city without even making an effort. He wasn’t likely to get excited by a stray glimpse of her quite unexceptional body.

He opened the passenger door for her calmly and shut it behind her before he went to get in the driver’s seat.

After he turned the car on and adjusted the heat, he smiled at her gently. “Do you want to get something hot to drink on the way home?”

She smiled back at him, fighting the instinct to be annoyed with him just because he was giving her that gentle look she hated. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

By the time Paul stopped at a nearby quick shop and came back with two cups of hot chocolate, Emily was feeling good again. She was tired and still kind of wet, but she felt like she’d accomplished something, and Paul wasn’t bad company at all.

They didn’t talk much on the drive home. Emily turned the music up again, and Paul drove fast. She didn’t sing this time, just listened and let herself get swept up in the heady rhythm of the music and the motion of the car. There was a kind of rich momentum to the combination of speed and sound on the dark road that was hypnotizing, compelling.

Whenever Paul glanced over at her, she made sure to smile at him—so he knew she was enjoying the drive.

She thought maybe he was too.

When they pulled back into the private parking deck under their building, Emily grinned and pulled her list out of her pocket.

She unfolded it and laid it on her knee. Without prompting, Paul reached down to a little compartment of his door and groped until he’d found a pen.

He handed it to her with a smile.

She crossed off from her list the item that said, “Go moonlight skinny-dipping at Lake Collins.”

As she was refolding her list, she said, “Thank you, Paul. Seriously. I really appreciate you taking me.”

“I was happy to.” He hadn’t turned off the car yet, and he hadn’t taken off his seatbelt. His eyes slanted away from her now, but she caught something reluctant in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

Emily stiffened, realizing Paul was going to say something she didn’t want to hear.

She’d thought they’d had such a good night.

“Emily,” Paul began, meeting her eyes again, seriously this time, “I’m glad we could do this, but I also need to know if you’re going to try to sneak out on me again.”

She sucked in her breath, surprised and a little relieved by the direction of his comments. She hadn’t been sure what he was going to say, but she’d briefly been scared he was going to tell her he couldn’t help her out with any more items on her list. “I’m not,” she said, lowering her lashes as she remembered the intensity of her feelings of rebellion earlier that evening. “I told you I was sorry about that. If I’m in this marriage, then I can’t have it both ways. I won’t do it again.”

Paul was silent for a moment, and she was sure he was scanning her face, although her eyes were still lowered so she couldn’t see him. He cleared his throat. “I don’t understand why you thought you had to do it in the first place.”

With a ragged exhale, she met his eyes again. “I don’t know really. It was like the last straw. I’ve had to accept…accept so many other things lately, and I just couldn’t accept your ordering me around.”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know you weren’t trying to order me around, but you were kind of doing that.”

When she paused, he was clearly thinking back to what he’d done and said earlier that evening. Then he nodded in internal acknowledgment. “I guess I was being…”

“Bossy,” she finished for him, slanting a little smile so he knew she wasn’t still angry. Then, since she could tell he wanted more of an answer, she stared forward at the gray concrete wall in front of the car and made herself continue. “You were being too bossy, but it was more than that for me. I don’t know if I can really explain it. Have you ever felt…Have you ever felt like you’re surrounded by shadows? And they’re all slowly encroaching on you?”

There was a long pause before he murmured, “Yeah.”

She cut her eyes over to him and saw with absolute clarity that Paul understood about shadows. She nodded, staring back at the wall since it seemed safer to speak that way. “Well, lately, the shadows all closed in on me so fast. Too fast. Too many of them. And they’re all taking things away from me. I guess it just felt like you were the only shadow I could fight.”

“Why am I a shadow?” Paul asked, very softly. When she jerked her gaze back to him, she saw his face was perfectly still but there was a glint of something vulnerable in his eyes.

“It’s not you,” she said hurriedly, afraid she’d hurt his feelings. “It’s not about who you are. It’s just that all these other shadows are taking away my choices, and I can’t do anything about them. I can’t stop them. I can’t stop them.”

For a moment, she had to hide her face, shaking a few times as her eyes blurred over and a flood of grief and helplessness overwhelmed her, but she controlled the emotion enough to continue, “So, when you started to take away my choices too, it felt like you were…you were one of them. And, unlike all of the other things, there was something I could do to resist you.”

She stared down at her hands for a long time after she finished, and it was absolutely silent in the car. Finally, she turned to check Paul's expression. He breathed heavily and stared straight in front of him at the wall she’d been focused on earlier.

“Do you,” she began, her voice cracking, “Do you understand?”

He met her eyes then, and she knew he did.

Tears started to stream down her face, and she brushed them away impatiently.

Paul finally spoke, his voice just slightly thick, “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I’m just used to doing what I think is best. I’m trying to do right by you—I really am—and I needed to make sure you were safe.”

“I know. I know you weren’t doing it just to be mean and controlling.”

“I’ll try not to bulldoze you. I mean that. But there are going to be some things about your health and your security that I’m not going to back down about.”

She nodded, sniffing a little. “I know. I can accept that.”

“So,” he began, finally reaching over to turn off the car. For some reason, he looked just a little uncertain. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah,” Emily told him with a smile, “We’re good.”

They got out and went up to the apartment, and, after a quick shower, she was very happy to pull on pajamas and crawl into bed.

This day seemed to be endless, but it ended better than it began.

Emily knew she would always be a project to Paul—something he’d committed to and was determined to see through to the end. She was pretty sure he was working out some sort of private guilt with her, and she was okay with that. She knew their relationship would never be defined by deep affection or emotional connection.

But it felt like they’d understood each other just now, and she thought that, from now on, they could at least be closer to partners.

As far as partners went, Paul was a pretty good one to have.

FOUR

Paul needed more coffee.

He’d had four cups already this morning, but he’d gotten up just after four o'clock, run on the treadmill, showered, dressed, and had been working in his study for four hours.

His old friends wouldn’t recognize him. Sometimes, he couldn’t even recognize himself.

Not too long ago, he’d been in the habit of sleeping late, often until noon. Ever since his mother died, though, he’d been waking up earlier and earlier, compelled by some unstoppable need to move, to act, to do.

He’d only been at his job a week, but he’d already fallen behind because of the wedding and the deposition. He knew the board had him on a very short leash, and he was determined to prove himself, for once in his life.

So, after they’d wrapped up the deposition in the early afternoon yesterday, Paul spent several hours catching up while Emily rested, and then he’d woken up early today and had managed to get through all the tasks and messages that had piled up in his inbox.

Paul felt better without the weight of all that work pressing down on him. So far, the board could have no reason to complain about his performance.

As soon as he opened the door of his home office, he was greeted to a warm, familiar scent. He followed it down the hall toward the kitchen, sniffing the air like a rapt bloodhound.

He found Emily at the end of his search.

She sat on folded legs on a stool at the kitchen bar, leaning in a relaxed sprawl on the black granite countertop and focused intently on her smart phone. Her fingers curved loosely around a mug of coffee.

She was probably texting Chris again. She’d talked to him on the phone more than two hours the previous evening. Paul knew because he’d heard her talking to the boy in the media room when he passed by at eight in the evening, and she was still on the phone with him when Paul got up to stretch his legs again at ten o’clock.

Paul doubted Emily would have enough to say to him for that long.

“Hey,” she said, smiling brightly when she glanced up and saw him standing there. “I’m making cinnamon rolls!”

“I can smell them.” He wandered into the kitchen toward the coffee maker. “I’m very impressed by your culinary energies.”

“Don’t be too impressed. They’re just the pop-out-and-bake kind.”

“Ah,” he murmured, pouring fresh coffee into his mug. “Then I’m less impressed.”

“Well, they still taste good. And I went through the trouble of asking Ruth to buy them for me yesterday. Then I popped them out, put them on the tray, and stuck them in the oven—which is more culinary energy than you exerted this morning, Mr. Boring-Protein-Bar-with-his-Coffee.”

He chuckled at her choice of words and tried to peer into one of the ovens to see how far along the cinnamon rolls were.

“So you don’t have to pooh-pooh my efforts.” She’d gotten up and walked around the bar to pour herself more coffee too, but she gave him a decidedly peeved look over her shoulder.

“I wouldn’t dream of pooh-poohing your efforts.” He tried to suppress a smile as he reached into the refrigerator for the half-and-half and handed it to her. “I’ve never had the pop-out kind before, but they smell good.”

After doctoring her coffee, Emily leaned back against the counter, holding her mug with both hands. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, pleasure evident on her face. “I love that smell.”

He stared at her silently for a moment as he sipped his coffee, wondering how she managed to so genuinely enjoy herself—enjoy such little things—when tragedy had struck her so hard, when the shadows had closed in around her so ruthlessly.

He’d understood her the other night when they’d talked in the car after their trip to the lake. He’d known exactly what she was feeling, since he’d felt those shadows before too.

He knew he wouldn’t have been able to handle circumstances like Emily’s with such courage and resilience. If he’d been told he had so little time to live, he was pretty sure he would drink himself into a three-month-long stupor or maybe just shoot himself.

He understood Emily’s shadows, but he didn’t understand how she was managing to hold them back.

He had his own shadows. His father was waiting for trial, and Paul would have to testify against him. Even with his intense focus on his new job and his responsibilities with Emily, Paul could barely manage to hold those shadows back.

After a moment, Emily opened her eyes again and caught him staring at her. She gave him an impatient frown, the one he was starting to recognize as her thinking he was feeling sorry for her.

Her annoyance was fleeting, and she stepped over to check on the rolls, peeking into the oven after she’d opened the door an inch. “They’re starting to puff up,” she informed him, as if he’d been waiting for this update. “But they still have a few more minutes.”

Since he had time to kill, he went over to the entry table and got the three newspapers that were delivered to the apartment every morning. His mother had always had daily subscriptions, and Paul couldn’t bring himself to cancel them, even though he almost always read the news online.

Emily had sat down again, but as he returned he caught her scanning him from his head to bare feet with a little sneer.

“What?” he asked, genuinely baffled by her apparent disapproval of how he looked. Since he wasn’t going anywhere this morning, he hadn’t thought much about his appearance, but he seemed to be basically presentable in khakis and a black t-shirt.

She gave him a disdainful sniff. “Do you always have to look so nice and pulled together, even first thing in the morning?”

Paul’s eyes widened in surprise. He wasn’t dressed up. His trousers were slightly wrinkled and he wasn’t wearing shoes.

Evidently recognizing his astonishment, Emily explained, “I’ve never seen you sloppy. Don’t you ever just hang around in your pajamas?”

Sometimes he did, but Paul had made a point of not doing so when Emily was around. It didn’t seem quite right to lounge around half-dressed with a dying, seventeen-year-old girl in the house.

Emily evidently had no such qualms. This morning, she was wearing what she’d obviously slept in—a little black tank-top and gray, cotton pajama pants. She was barefoot, and her hair looked unbrushed, hanging around her shoulders in messy waves, almost red-gold in the morning light.

It made Paul a little uncomfortable to have Emily looking so much like she’d just rolled out of bed, but he didn’t have the heart to ask her to not go around so under-dressed. She should be able to feel at home here.

He just had to make sure not to look at her too closely.

When he saw her eyeing him strangely, he realized he’d never answered her question. “It’s not first thing in the morning for me,” he explained, shifting the conversation to something more impersonal. “I’ve been up since four.”

She shook her head. “That’s just wrong.”

He gave a huff of laughter, took the newspapers to the bar, and sat down on the stool next to her. “I haven’t been able to sleep in lately, for some reason, and I’ve found I can get a lot of work done in those early hours of the morning.”

“Did I make you really behind at your job?” she asked, a flicker of concern in her eyes.

“No. I’m all caught up now.”

“Are you sure? If you need to work, just tell me. I know you’re just starting out in this position, and they might be looking over your shoulder all the time. You really don’t have to do all the stuff on my list with me. It’s really okay if you—”

“Emily, stop,” he interrupted, a little sharply. “I’ll tell you if I’m too busy.”

She frowned at his tone. “Okay. I just worry. I don’t like to be a nuisance. Are they really dumping all their unwanted projects on you?”

“Yes. Some of this stuff has been sitting on other people’s desks for months, and now they have someone to give it to.” He heard an edge of bitterness in his tone, so he tried to temper it—not wanting to sound like he was whining.

“What kind of work is it? Just stupid, tedious stuff?”

“No. Well, yeah, there is some tedious stuff, but my position is too high on the food chain to waste on entry-level work. I’m getting all of these no-win projects—the stuff everyone knows is going nowhere good and so no one wants to take on. Like the reorganization of one of the departments.”

“What’s so hard about that?”

“I don’t see how it can be done without firing a third of the personnel. I’m sure no one else can figure out how either, which is why they stuck me with it.”

She made a face. “Oh. That’s awful.”

For some reason, her sympathy was comforting. “Yeah.”

“Well, I’m sure you can think of some creative way to do it and not fire all those people. They might think it’s a no-win project, but they don’t know how brilliant you are.”

He snorted, although he was rather pleased by the off-hand compliment. “You have no evidence of said brilliance.”

“Are you kidding me? You graduated from the Ivy Leagues and then got your MBA without ever slowing down your partying and crazy adventure sports. There’s no way you could have done that if you weren’t naturally brilliant. If you keep working as hard as you have this week, you’ll figure out all of those projects. They’ll see you aren’t the reckless kid they think. Everyone will be awed by you.” She patted his arm in a casually supportive gesture.

He felt strangely self-conscious and looked down at the front page of the newspaper. “You’re pretty good at the supportive-wife act for just being married a week.”

She giggled. “I must be naturally talented at it.”

They smiled at each other, and Paul had the oddest sensation of being heard.

Emily gasped and jerked upright. “The cinnamon rolls!” she squeaked, scrambling off the stool and running over to the oven. She grabbed a hot pad and pulled the tray out, dropping it on the counter.

“Are they all right?” he asked, leaning over to get a look at how well-done the rolls had ended up.

“Yeah,” she said, relief evident in her tone, “They’re not burned. Just a little browner than I usually make them.”

She already seemed to know her way around the kitchen, since she easily found a big plate and two knives. She grabbed each hot cinnamon roll between her finger and thumb and quickly dropped them over onto the plate.

“You should wait until they cool down a little,” he said, when she blew on her fingers.

She frowned. “They need to be iced while they’re hot.”

“Ah. I didn’t know there was icing.”

“Of course, there’s icing!” She brought the plate over to the bar and, after picking up a little tub of white icing, she handed him a knife.

Paul took the knife automatically and then stared at it in his hand blankly.

Emily climbed back onto her stool, grinning. “Now,” she said, as if she was making a great concession, “You can help, but you can’t hog the icing. They never give us enough in these little tubs.”

He watched as she scooped an enthusiastic amount of thick icing onto her knife.

As she slathered the icing onto the biggest of the five large cinnamon rolls, he dipped his own knife in the icing. He’d never iced cinnamon rolls before, but it seemed to be a fairly simple process, so he moved one of the rolls on the plate closer to him and coated the top smoothly.

Emily was already digging into the tub with her knife for more, but she paused to watch him. “You don’t have to be so neat,” she told him with another frown.

Paul blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been trying to make his icing neat, but a quick glance from his to Emily’s haphazardly iced roll made the difference clear.

“You have to go fast, or they’ll start to get cold,” Emily added, smearing the icing on a second roll.

Paul obediently sped up his icing process on the second of his cinnamon rolls. Then, while Emily iced the final one, he used the remainder of the icing to add to the rolls that had been cheated.

“Now, then,” Emily said, her eyes laughing as she put down her knife on the counter and picked up the roll with the most icing. “Finally.”

He watched in amusement as she took a big bite and closed her eyes with a little moan of pleasure.

When she opened her eyes, she gestured toward the plate. “Aren't you going to have one?”

Paul picked one up and took a bite. It was too sweet, of course, but the taste matched the warm, pleasant scent, and he realized he was hungry.

They each ate two of the cinnamon rolls. When Paul was returning to his stool after refilling both of their coffee mugs, he noticed Emily eyeing the last roll greedily.

“You can have it,” he told her, marveling that she could eat so much when she seemed so small to him. He wasn’t so foolish as to tell her that, of course.

She shook her head with a little smile and pulled the last one apart, offering him one very messy half.

Paul didn’t really want it, but he ate it anyway.

Emily gave a happy sigh as she finished, but then she put a hand on her stomach. “Oh, I feel sick. I ate too much.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

“You shouldn’t mock me when you reaped the benefits of my culinary energies this morning.”

“I did,” he acknowledged, trying to suppress another ripple of laughter. “And I greatly appreciate it.”

Paul felt a little sticky from the icing, so he got up to wash his hands. When he returned to the bar, he saw that Emily had gone back to her smart phone.

“How’s Chris?” he asked casually.

“He’s fine. I talked to him last night.” Then she seemed to realize what had prompted the question. “Oh, I’m not texting Chris. I was just reading.”

“What are you reading?” Paul asked, leaning over from his stool to peer at the screen of her phone.

Emily looked a little sheepish, but she replied readily enough. “Shakespeare.” At his questioning look, she explained, “One of the things on my list is to read all of Shakespeare’s plays. I still have a ways to go.”

“Which one are you on?” he asked.

“Coriolanus,” she said with a curl of her mouth.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

She shook with laughter at his dry tone. Then she explained, “I’ve read all the normal ones. Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, Othello, King Lear, Midsummer Night's Dream, Much Ado about Nothing, The Tempest, Twelfth Night, As You Like It, Merchant of Venice.” She paused, evidently trying to think if she’d forgotten anything. “So now I’m stuck with the less appealing ones. I haven’t even started the history plays yet, since they scare me.”

“Actually, the two parts of Henry IV, Henry V, and Richard III are really good. You’ll probably like them. But I’m afraid you do still have some rough going. Wait until you get to Titus Andronicus.”

“Don’t scare me this early.” Emily made a face, but then she squared her shoulders. “But I can do it. I’m a pretty fast reader, although it’s harder to get through Shakespeare than it is a novel.”

“The more you read of him, the easier it gets. After a few more plays, you’ll probably be able to get through them pretty quickly.” He thought through the list she’d just rehearsed. “Wait, you haven’t read Hamlet?”

“Not yet. It was never assigned in school, and now I’m saving it until the end.” She glanced away, a flicker of emotion on her face. “I mean the end of the plays.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his relaxed mood subdued by this reminder of the shortness of her life. “It will be a great one to read last. If someone was only going to read one work from all of English literature, it should be Hamlet.”

He suddenly realized he sounded rather nerdy. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before.

He had no idea what had happened to him in the last six months.

She smiled, evidently not thinking there was anything unusual about his discoursing on literature. “Then I’ll have it to look forward to, since you like it so much.”

Paul cleared his throat and returned to a less emotionally-charged topic. “Why are you trying to read the plays on your phone? That can’t be easy.”

“It’s fine. I don’t have copies of most of them, but they're all available for free online. I use my computer too, when it’s convenient.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’ll buy you copies of them. You’ll strain your eyes trying to read that way, and it will take even longer to get through them.”

“I don’t like for you to have to buy me everything. It will be a waste of money, since I won’t be around for—”

“Paperbacks don’t cost that much,” he interrupted, feeling a familiar swell of frustration at her stubbornness. “Actually, I think I have something here…”

He got up before Emily could argue and walked back to his office, trying to force down his annoyance.

He’d meant what he told her in the car on Friday night about trying not to bulldoze her. He’d resolved to try to hear her side of things and make any compromises he could legitimately make.

But he’d never met anyone who could drive him so crazy with her stubborn unwillingness to accept help.

When he got to his office, he scanned the bookshelves for his Shakespeare. Not finding it, he went to search the bookshelves in his bedroom instead. There, he found the big Riverside Shakespeare he’d gotten in college and pulled it off the shelf.

As he carried it back into the kitchen, he saw that Emily was sprawled over the bar again. She’d confiscated his newspaper, but at the moment she was reaching over to get the last of the icing off the plate with her finger.

She was sitting on her folded legs again, which he couldn’t believe was very comfortable. She leaned forward, bracing her weight on her forearms on the counter with the newspaper spread out in front of her.

Her top was riding up on her back, and he could see a wide expanse of smooth, fair skin. Her position had caused the waistband of her pajama pants to dip low at the back, revealing the top of what looked like blue cotton underwear.

For a moment, he was startled by how lush the curve of her ass was, the rounded shape highlighted by her position and the thinness of the fabric stretched over it. A flash of physical interest surprised him as he stared at the deeply curved line from her slim waist to her full hips.

It only took a few seconds for him to realize what he was doing. He jerked his gaze away with a guilty cringe.

He was not—not—going to be that man. The man who leched after a vulnerable seventeen-year-old just because she happened to be available.

If only he hadn’t instinctively turned around when she'd squealed getting out of the water on Friday night. She’d ducked down immediately, but he’d still had time to see her. While he’d been too surprised to immediately register what he’d seen, it didn’t take long for his mind to catch up. After she’d hugged him and he’d noticed the way her dress clung to her breasts, he’d finally processed the memory of her walking out of the lake like a naked, sopping-wet Aphrodite.

Her skin was pale, and it had almost glowed in the moonlight. Her breasts were full and firm with peaked nipples, bouncing slightly with her motion in the hip-deep water.

And, damn it, his body was interested in that memory.

Paul's body clearly had none of the scruples that his mind had, but he refused to let it do what it wanted. This was too important. These were the last weeks of Emily’s life.

He was going to do right by her, no matter what it took. He was not at the mercy of his passing sexual interests, and so far he’d been fairly successful in not entertaining sexual thoughts about his wife.

But it would have been easier if he hadn’t seen her naked.

“What’s that?” Emily asked, looking back and catching him standing there like an idiot.

“Shakespeare.” He pulled himself together and walked over to place the book on the counter beside her. “It will be easier to read the plays this way.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “Although the size of that book is a little intimidating.”

He returned her smile, relieved that he’d once again managed to lock away any inappropriate thoughts about her where they wouldn’t trouble him. “You’ll get through them all faster than you think.”

She murmured thanks and fanned through the pages of the large book, and the position of her arm suddenly highlighted something he hadn’t noticed before.

With a sharp inhalation, Paul grabbed her bare arm and pulled it into a position where he could see it better.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she demanded, trying to free her arm.

Paul stared down, horrified, at a line of faint bruises that were clearly made by someone’s fingers.

His fingers.

He let her arm drop loosely and stood frozen in place, slammed with waves of intense guilt and self-disgust. She was small and sick and vulnerable and young. And, in his anger, he had manhandled her violently enough to leave bruises.

Emily’s face reflected bewilderment, and she tried to look over her shoulder, down at whatever he’d seen on the back of her upper-arm.

She must have figured it out because she rolled her eyes. “Don’t be melodramatic. I just bruise easily.”

Paul didn’t respond. He’d made a lot of mistakes in his life. He’d done a lot of things he wished he hadn’t. But he’d never believed himself to be the kind of man who would hurt a woman.

“Paul, I mean it,” she snapped, “You didn’t hurt me. I didn’t even know the bruises were there.” When he still didn’t answer, she added, “I shouldn’t have been running away.”

“So that means you deserved to be…to be…”

“To be what?” she demanded, “What exactly do you think you did to me? You grabbed me to keep me from getting in the cab, and you squeezed harder than you meant to. You didn’t assault me or anything.”

He wasn’t sure if he could allow himself to take comfort in her words. He’d been so angry on Friday night. When Tim had told him that his wife had somehow managed to get into the main parking deck of the building, he’d been swallowed up in a kind of panic, afraid she would get away, get hurt, get killed—and he would have utterly failed in his commitment to take care of her.

She’d just been half a block away, hailing a cab, when he made it outside. The look on her face—a kind of secret exhilaration—had snapped his control. How dare she look like that, when he’d felt so worried and helpless.

“Paul!” Emily’s sharp words broke through his bleak reflections. “You’re being ridiculous. If you’re not going to let me be ridiculous, then I’m not going to let you be ridiculous either. Do you really think I’d trust you if you’d hurt me? I let you take me skinny-dipping right afterwards! Would I have trusted you like that if you’d been…been what you’re thinking?”

Paul blinked, something in her words getting through to him. He cleared his throat. “Emily, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t mean to! What the hell do you think I’m trying to tell you, you big dumbass?”

Paul had never been called a dumbass before. Not to his face, at least. Despite his relief at her words, he didn't really appreciate the name-calling.

They glared at each other for a minute, and then he saw her mouth tighten with irrepressible irony. He couldn’t help but half-smile back. “Okay. The only other thing I'll say is that it won’t happen again.”

“Good. And I won’t run away again. So we’re even.”

She seemed to think that resolved matters, so Paul had no choice but to give the subject up.

They drank more coffee and read the newspapers in companionable silence, until Paul’s phone rang a half-hour later.

He walked out of the kitchen as he took it, but when he returned he was quite pleased with himself. “I got your skydiving scheduled for Tuesday,” he told Emily, who’d glanced up at his return.

Her eyes widened. “So soon? I thought it would have to be later in the week.”

“I can reschedule if you want. I just thought you’d want to do it as soon as possible.”

“I do.” She swallowed visibly. “Thank you. And maybe it’s just as well that I don’t have so much time before it happens, so I can't work myself into a panic about it.”

Paul sat down with his newspaper again. "You'll do fine. It won't be nearly as frightening as you think."

"You're coming with me, aren't you?"

For as long as he’d known her, she’d always tried to act invulnerable—like the only person she could rely on was herself.

He wondered what he'd done to deserve the trust in her eyes. All he said was, "Of course."

***

Paul had gone skydiving for the first time when he’d been eighteen, and since then he’d logged over a hundred and fifty jumps.

For a couple of years, he’d been obsessed with it. He’d tried a number of other extreme sports—bungee jumping, caving, cliff diving, extreme skiing—but nothing had attracted him like skydiving.

He understood what most people were looking for in such activities. He understood the compulsion of the challenge, the rush of adrenalin, the heady sense of defying limits.

Paul hadn’t taken up skydiving only for those reasons, though. He was sure a psychiatrist could analyze him and develop a complex theory about his adolescent rebellion against authority and his emotional insecurity—caused primarily by a tyrannical father who didn’t love him.

Looking back now, Paul could put it more simply. There was a moment, after the doors of the plane would opened, as he was poised above a blinding height and about to let go of anything secure, when he’d felt like he was going to die. That had been the point back then.

Paul had jumped out of a plane a hundred and fifty-two times in his life because he just hadn’t cared if he died.

His life had changed a lot since then, but as they took off for their jump on Tuesday, every detail of the experience was familiar. The vibrations of the plane, the loud roar of the engine, the throbbing pulse of his blood, the faint, bitter beginnings of adrenalin in his mouth, the weight of the gear on his back. It all felt the same as it used to.

Except now Paul had a wife who was sitting beside him.

And he didn’t really want to jump.

He was going to, of course. Jumping wasn’t that big a deal to him, and Emily was counting on him to be with her in this. Because of his training and experience, Paul was licensed to jump solo, although technically this was his recurrency jump and had to be done in the presence of an instructor.

There was absolutely nothing challenging to him about the jump today, but he wasn’t really having fun.

Emily was scared and trying not to show it. She was doing a pretty good job, but Paul could see her hands were trembling and her face was very pale.

She’d seemed excited this morning, and she’d enjoyed the instruction she’d gotten earlier, but, once they’d gotten into the plane, her very natural fear had caught up with her. Paul had been chatting with her casually in an attempt to distract her, telling her about some of the jumps he’d taken with Mike and Russ a few years back. She was trying to focus on what he told her and smiled or murmured at the right spots, but he could tell her nerves were making it hard for her to think about anything except the jump.

Paul had learned to skydive from Mike and Russ—the best instructors in the region. They worked out of a drop zone just outside of Philadelphia, and Paul had done most of his jumps with them. Naturally, he’d arranged to schedule Emily’s skydiving experience with them as well.

Russ was already hooked up to jump tandem with Emily. He was in his “zone,” as he called it—staring out at the sky and ignoring any and all attempts to talk to him. But Mike was making jokes, trying to help Emily relax, and he kept giving Paul amused, ironic glances.

Paul knew why.

Mike thought his old friend, who had once been as wild as they came, had gone soft and domestic, and he was getting a big kick out of that incongruity.

Paul was doing his best to ignore it.

“I couldn’t believe when I heard Paul was getting a job and settling down,” Mike said, grinning at Emily after a pause in conversation. “But, now that I see you, I finally understand his reasons.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

Mike was about thirty but still had a baby-face that he tried to hide with ever-present stubble. He slanted a taunting look at Paul. “Maybe if I settle down, I can find myself a pretty wife too.”

“Wouldn’t do any good,” Paul said. “None of the pretty girls would want you.”

Emily laughed at his comeback, but her laughter sounded a little forced. He scanned her face closely, noticing again how white she looked and hoping she was actually going to enjoy this.

When she saw him observing her, she murmured hoarsely, “I must have been insane to want to do this.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s just the first step off that seems so hard.”

She nodded a little jerkily. “Don’t let me chicken out at the last minute.”

“I won’t. I know you want to do this.” He didn’t say any more, since Mike and Russ were right there, but both he and Emily knew what he referred to.

When he saw her hands twisting restlessly together, the sight bothered him. Responding to an inexplicable compulsion, he reached over and covered them with one of his.

It was only intended to be a brief, supportive gesture—since he understood her nervousness and felt bad for her—but Emily clung to his hand with one of hers and wouldn’t let it go.

So, quite unintentionally, Paul ended up holding hands with her for the few minutes until the plane was in position.

Mike seemed to find the hand-holding hilarious, if his mocking looks were anything to go by. He no doubt believed that Paul was showing himself to be a clichéd, sentimental sap after all.

There was absolutely nothing Paul could do to clarify the matter. He couldn’t tell Mike the truth about his marriage, and he couldn’t even pull his hand away from Emily’s the way he wanted, since it seemed rather heartless to deny her the support she needed.

Paul, however, felt very awkward, sitting there and holding her hand as they waited to jump out of a plane. There was a strange clench in his chest that he didn’t like and didn't understand.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Mike went to open the door, letting in a familiar blast of wind. “Ready?” he asked with a broad grin.

Emily gave a little whimper, so soft Paul barely heard it, but she didn’t hesitate as she and Russ moved into position in their tandem gear. She gave Paul one last look over her shoulder.

He supposed he should have been able to think of something comforting and inspiring to say, but he couldn’t think of anything. So he just nodded and smiled. Said, “I’ll see you on the ground, and we can cross it off the list.”

She smiled back at him, and then she and Russ were jumping.

Paul stared at the open door of the plane where Emily had just disappeared. Now that he was no longer distracted by her, he felt the familiar, almost painful pounding of his blood.

Mike had been looking down at Russ and Emily and counting seconds since their jump, but now he looked up at Paul with a grin. “Still remember how to do this?”

Paul ignored that and moved into position.

“I’ll be right behind you. So, if you freak out, no worries. I’ll come and rescue you."

Paul gave that comment the sneer it deserved. Then he stared out into the vast emptiness of the sky, felt the blast of wind against his face, experienced the familiar dizzying sensation of being completely out of control, nothing to hold onto, on the edge of death.

He used to crave this feeling like a drug.

He jumped, realizing something had definitely changed. He had unfinished business in his life. He had real responsibilities. He had someone who depended only on him.

And he didn’t want to die anymore.

* * *

Paul stared at his computer screen and tried to focus on the email he was supposed to be writing. He was still experiencing the effects of the adrenalin rush from skydiving earlier in the day, however, and he just couldn’t seem to concentrate.

He was half-exhausted and half-wired, and neither feeling made it easy to work.

He was looking blankly at the screen, with unmoving hands poised over his keyboard, when he heard a tap on the door to his home office.

He spun the chair around and saw Emily peeking in. He couldn’t help but smile at how hesitant she looked, as if she were afraid he was hard at work instead of desperately trying to type out a single word. “What’s up?” he asked her, gesturing her to come in.

“Sorry to bother you,” she began, peering at his computer screen out of either curiosity or anxiety about disturbing his work.

“No bother. I was mostly just spinning my wheels. How are you feeling?”

“Great,” she said, beaming at him with that bright Emily-smile. She was wearing well-worn jeans and a casual, wine-red top that had a neckline a little too low for his liking. “I still feel kind of buzzed. How long does it take to come down from the adrenalin?”

“It depends. But I guarantee, when you drop, you’ll know it.”

She laughed, and he could still see the lingering thrill from the jump in her eyes.

Emily had been out of her mind with excitement after skydiving. When he’d first seen her after they’d both reached the ground, she’d launched herself at him in the fiercest hug he’d ever received. She’d sustained the exhilarated high all the way home, demanding that Paul drive faster and that he switch his boring music to something much wilder and louder.  Paul had run on the treadmill when they’d gotten home—since he knew exercise helped to even out his body chemistry—and Emily had taken his advice and gone for a swim, since she said rather heatedly that she hated running in place.

Since then, he didn’t know what she’d been doing.

“Anyway,” she continued, looking a little hesitant again, “I didn’t know if you were hungry or anything, but Ruth was nice enough to make me a lasagna to warm up, and it’s just about done. I didn’t know if you wanted to have dinner with me or just work or if you needed to go out or…whatever.”

Paul stared at Emily for a moment, wondering why she thought he might need to go out. It wasn’t like he was going to date other women while he was married to her, and there was little else that would pull him out on a random Tuesday night.

“You don’t have to,” she added hurriedly, when he didn’t immediately answer. “Ruth made it for me to be nice, since I was telling her it was my favorite when I was younger.”

“I’ll join you, if you don’t mind. I usually just lose track of time and end up grabbing something before bed.”

“That’s a terrible habit,” she chided, as they left the office and walked together toward the kitchen. “And how can you forget about dinner?”

The truth was Paul was usually alone, and so he’d gotten out of the habit of keeping a normal schedule. He would eat something at the computer or standing in the kitchen. Until he’d married Emily, he’d almost never sat down at home just to eat.

“Oh, God, it smells good,” she murmured throatily, closing her eyes as they entered the kitchen. “Ruth was so sweet to make it for me. Did you know that both of her sons are chefs?”

“No,” Paul admitted, wondering how Emily somehow knew more about the woman who cleaned his apartment and stocked his pantry than he did. “In Philadelphia?”

“Yeah. She told me where Johnny was, but I didn’t recognize the name of the restaurant. But Sammy’s at Gino’s. They have the best Chicken Marsala there. Apparently her sons want to open a restaurant together. They just don’t have the money yet to pull it off.” While she was talking, she puttered around the kitchen, pulling out a fresh baguette from the bread cubby and sorting through produce in the refrigerator. “Did you want a salad?”

Paul looked in the oven and saw the lasagna was hot and bubbly. He realized he was ravenous. “Sure.”

Emily handed him a bunch of romaine lettuce. “Here. Wash that and chop it up, and I’ll figure out what we have for toppings.”

While Paul worked on the lettuce, Emily diced tomatoes and cucumbers. Then she grated parmigiano reggiano as he made a simple vinaigrette. Their salad was done by the time Paul pulled the lasagna out of the oven.

When he saw Emily pull out two plates and set them out on the kitchen bar, he suggested, “We can eat on the terrace if you want. It’s a nice evening.”

Emily seemed delighted by this suggestion and immediately piled up the plates with forks, knives, napkins, and placemats to take outside. He grabbed the salad and bread and carried them out to the wrought-iron table on the large terrace. While Emily set the table, he went back to the kitchen. He’d been going to get the lasagna, but he made a detour into the wine closet. Without thinking, he grabbed a decent bottle of Chianti—not very expensive, maybe forty dollars—since that was what he normally paired with lasagna.

But when he walked out of the closet, he could see Emily on the terrace through the glass doors. She was lighting the candle in the glass hurricane and smiling as she admired the effect.

Paul went back into the closet and got a much better bottle of Chianti.

He’d grabbed two wine glasses in one hand when she came back in the kitchen. When she looked at him curiously, he showed her the bottle of wine. “Good?”

Her mouth twitched irrepressibly as she read the label. “Looks great.”

Drawing his brows together, he studied her face. He couldn’t tell if she was just brimming over with pleasure or if she was laughing at him for some reason. “You can choose something else if—”

“No,” she interrupted, her face transforming with a wide smile as she picked up the lasagna with two hot pads. “That looks perfect. Thank you. Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”

Pleased that she approved of his wine choice, he followed her out to the terrace.

Paul enjoyed dinner more than he could have expected. Ruth had outdone herself with the lasagna. Emily seemed particularly impressed with his vinaigrette, saying she was never using salad dressing out of a bottle again. The evening was crisp and pleasant, and the sun was setting in pinks and oranges behind the cityscape.

They talked about skydiving. Then about what Emily wanted to do next from her list. Then Emily gave him advice on how he could better decorate the terrace, including twinkly lights on the potted trees.

The only flaw in the dinner was that he kept noticing Emily’s cleavage in her too-low neckline. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the aftermath of the adrenaline, but he was having much more trouble than normal keeping his eyes from lingering there.

When they finished eating, they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, looking out at the view. Emily gave a long, pleased sigh, and something unusually husky in the sound made Paul’s body give a hard clench of interest, much stronger than any physical response to her he’d experienced before.

Startled and unnerved by his reaction, he picked up the wine to pour out the rest of it and hopefully distract himself from reactions he shouldn't be having. He’d had about three glasses of wine, so he knew Emily must have had much less, even though he’d topped off her glass several times.  He started to pour most of the rest of the Chianti into her glass.

Then he noticed her lips were twitching again as she watched him.

He finally realized what she found so funny.

“Damn it,” he choked, jerking the bottle back, “You shouldn’t be drinking this!”

Emily burst into a delicious ripple of uninhibited hilarity. “I was wondering when you’d notice,” she gasped after a minute, evidently trying to control her laughter but failing miserably.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded, embarrassed and unsettled by such an obvious gaffe. What the hell had he been thinking?

“I wanted wine with the lasagna,” she explained, her lovely face glowing with her attempts to suppress her amusement.  “And you were so cute serving alcohol to a minor.”

Paul glared at her, deciding she was having far too much fun with his mistake. But his glare—which had intimidated many over the years—just made her laugh even harder.

He couldn’t hold onto his resentment for long, not in the face of her transparent amusement. He hadn’t heard her laugh so uninhibitedly since her father had died two years ago, not even when she’d been skinny-dipping in the lake.

She must have seen his face softening because she looked at him with something warm and almost fond in her eyes. “After all, I had champagne on our wedding day, so it’s not entirely unprecedented.”

“But that was in France,” he muttered. “Where it wasn’t illegal.”

He’d started drinking when he was fourteen, and it had been a lot more than a glass of wine with dinner.

Emily was different, though.

She burst into another ripple of laughter and reached over to pat his hand. “Seriously, Paul. How much chance do you think there is that I’ll take up binge-drinking or fall into a lifetime of alcoholism?”

Her voice was light, almost teasing, but her words reminded him of a reality that he’d let slip from his mind for the last hour. He felt a heavy sinking in his gut as he recalled that she would never reach legal drinking age at all.

Emily met his eyes, and her laughter transformed into something poignant and aching. “Thank you, Paul,” she murmured. “The wine, the whole meal was really…special to me.”

He nodded, not having any idea what he should say. He just picked up the Chianti bottle and split what remained between their two glasses.

Apparently, Emily didn’t need him to say anything. They sat in silence, looking at the sunset, until the wine was gone.

* * *

Paul tried to work again after dinner, but he kept getting distracted. Eventually, he gave up on work completely. At nine-thirty he left his office with several sheets of printed paper.

He wandered the apartment until he found Emily in the media room.

She was curled up in a corner of the sofa, covered with a cashmere throw, and she was wearing pale blue pajama pants and a little white camisole with lacy straps, one of which was slipping down her shoulder.

She smiled when she saw him. “I should be reading Shakespeare, but I gave up.”

Paul glanced at the television screen and recognized Casablanca. She was only a few minutes into it.

“I’ve never seen it,” she explained. “It’s not on my list, but it seems like something you should see.”

He sat down next to her on the couch. “I can’t believe you’ve never seen Casablanca.”

“So says the ultimate patrician. Clearly, I’ve lived a very plebian life.”

Her tone was wry, but he didn’t like the sentiment, and he shot her a disapproving look.

“What do you have there?” she asked, gesturing toward the papers in his hand.

“See for yourself." He handed them to her with a pleased smile, looking forward to her reaction.

He wasn’t disappointed. It took a minute for Emily to scan over them, but then she gave a little squeal of excitement. “We can go to Egypt to see the Pyramids? So soon?”

He nodded and was about to respond, but then Emily threw herself at him in a hug.

She was evidently quite a hugger, since, in their short time together, she’d hugged him more than anyone ever had except his mother. Paul wasn’t sure what to do with such open, unconstrained displays of affection, and her first hug had made him feel too awkward to enjoy. But the more she hugged him, the more he liked it.

He hugged her back, breathing in the herbal scent of her shampoo and the feeling of warmth, closeness, fondness that her simple embrace conveyed.

After a moment, however, he became aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her soft breasts were pressed up against his chest, and her camisole seemed to be tissue-thin.

Paul pulled away from her gently, making sure to keep his eyes from slipping down to see how much of her breasts were visible through the thin material.

She beamed at him, completely unaware of the inappropriate detour his mind had taken. “I didn’t think we’d be able to go so soon!”

He forced his brain back to the topic at hand. “There’s no reason why not. I’ve made all the arrangements.” He recovered the itinerary he’d put together and held it out for her see. “We can go to New York on Friday—it’s less than a two hour drive—and spend the day there on Saturday. We can do the Empire State Building, since that was on your list.”

She curled her lip. “Don’t scoff. I was twelve and that seemed exciting.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure it did. I did some research, and there’s a production of Henry V running that’s supposed to be excellent. It’s the entire play, so it’s long, but it might be more fun than reading—”

His explanation was interrupted with another hug.

Torn between amusement and concern over his body's responses, Paul was briefly paralyzed, not sure whether to hug her back or pull away.

She didn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me. Thank you so much.”

He shrugged off her gratitude and tried to refocus on the itinerary.

When they finished going over it, Emily set the movie to begin again and they watched Casablanca together, since Paul wasn’t getting any work done anyway.

After it was over, Emily turned on the news.

Paul glanced over at her a few minutes later and was surprised to find she was asleep, curled up in a little ball on the couch.

She looked young and incredibly innocent, with the intelligence, humor, and tenacity in her eyes concealed by her closed eyelids. Her lashes were long and thick, fanned out against her smooth skin. The outline and shading of her nipples was clearly visible through the thin, white cotton.

Her arms were bare, and it was cool in the room, so he pulled the cashmere throw farther up to cover her.

Paul had spent most of his life lashing out against everything he hated about the world, searching for anything that might numb him against wounds that wouldn’t heal.

He had no practice in focusing on someone else. And, despite his vast experience, he hadn’t really lived—anymore than Emily had.

She didn’t look sick, but she was. And two weeks of her last three months had already passed.

Sitting on the couch with a growing ache in his chest, Paul realized something he hadn’t consciously been aware of before.

He was going to miss her when she died.

FIVE

Paul was really busy for the two days before they went to New York.

Emily didn’t see much of him at all on the Wednesday and Thursday after their skydiving expedition, since he was gone from the apartment for most of the day, working in his company office or having meetings or something, and then he didn’t leave his home office most of the evenings.

Emily didn’t complain or even mention his absence. She missed him a lot after spending so much time with him for the last couple of weeks, and she found herself quite lonely in the apartment by herself. But Paul had gone to incredible lengths to make wonderful things happen for her, and she could hardly begrudge him the need to spend his time working or having fun on his own.

She wasn’t going to be a silly, self-centered girl who whined that the man who had married her, taken her skydiving, and was flying her to Egypt on Sunday wasn’t spending enough time with her.

So the only time she interrupted him was to ask if he wanted to have dinner with her. On Wednesday he said he had too much to do, so he just ate a sandwich at his desk. He came out and had chicken stir-fry with her on Thursday, though.

He was quiet at dinner, and he’d reverted back to the perpetually gentle look, which bothered Emily more than it should have. On Tuesday evening, she’d had such a wonderful time eating with him on the terrace. He’d seemed relaxed, like he thought of her as a friend and not as a project or an object of pity. It hadn’t lasted past the night, though.

Emily refused to take it personally. He was probably stressed out by his difficult new job. His change in behavior surely couldn't be connected to her. She couldn’t think of anything she might have done to upset or offend him.

She was disappointed by his standoffish mood, however, and honestly a little bit hurt. She’d felt close to him on Tuesday, and then it seemed to disappear.

He still seemed quiet on the trip to New York on Friday. Once they were on the road, Emily started reading him passages of Henry IV Part 1 out loud, mostly so they weren’t sitting in silence. She hammed it up as much as she could and made Paul laugh with her exaggerated readings of Falstaff and Hotspur. Eventually Paul started reading scenes with her, and they had a great time going through the best parts of the play.

When Paul was his warm, dry self again as they arrived at their very fancy hotel in New York, Emily congratulated herself on a job well done.

* * *

Emily woke up at three o’clock on Saturday morning with her mouth so dry it hurt.

She sat up in the dark and drank the rest of the bottle of water she’d put on her nightstand before going to bed.

When it was gone and she was still thirsty, she got up to go to the bathroom and then fill up a glass with tap water. She took a few sips and decided she must be getting spoiled, since tap water wasn’t nearly as good as the expensive bottled water she’d grown accustomed to over the last weeks.

She and Paul were staying in a two-room suite on one of the top floors of the hotel. Emily had insisted that Paul have the larger room with the huge king-sized bed because she wanted the more feminine smaller room with pale blue walls and elegantly curved furniture. She peeked out the door to the bedroom and saw that the lights were off in the parlor, which meant Paul must have gone to bed.

She couldn’t believe how dedicated he was to his new job. He’d still been working on his laptop when she’d gone to bed at midnight.

She was only wearing a white tank-top and a pair of pink boy-shorts, and she didn't want to parade around Paul like that. Since he was in his room now, however, she didn't bother putting on more clothes.

She walked through the huge parlor—complete with a fireplace and chandelier—to the kitchen. When she bumped into the edge of the bar, she reached over and turned on a small lamp so she could see where she was going, and then she opened the refrigerator to grab another bottle of water.

Her mouth felt bone dry again, so she screwed off the top and took several cold gulps.

She put the water down so she could turn back off the lamp, which should have been a simple process, but somehow she managed to knock the bottle off the counter as she was bringing her hand back from the lamp.

The glass bottle landed on the tile floor with a loud clatter. It didn’t break, but it rolled across the kitchen, spilling out all the water onto the floor.

Emily cursed under her breath and snatched up the bottle, glancing over at Paul’s closed door. It was dead silent in the suite, and she hoped the clatter hadn’t woken him.

She couldn’t bring herself to leave spilled water on the floor—not in a place as nice as this—so she grabbed a hand towel and bent down to wipe it up as best she could.

“Emily?” Paul’s voice came from across the parlor. “What’s wrong? Emily?”  He sounded urgent, worried. Then the overhead lights came on.

“Nothing,” she groaned. “I’m sorry. I’m just clumsy.” She wiped hurriedly, trying to get it done before Paul came into the kitchen. She felt her cheeks grow warm. She really should have put on more clothes.

She wasn’t quick enough. Her back was to the entrance of the kitchen, but she could feel him standing there, assessing the situation, including the empty bottle of water, the wet floor, and Emily's hurried wiping.

And very likely her overexposed butt.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, finishing up the floor before she turned around to see his expression. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. You can go back to bed.”

“You should have turned the lights on. Why were you trying to grope around in the dark?”

“I had the lamp on. I’d just turned it off before I knocked over the water.” She finished wiping and straightened up, hanging the towel on the side of the sink. “Your sage advice is much appreciated, though,” she added sarcastically, deciding she wasn't going to be self-conscious about her sleepwear. He saw her in her pajamas all the time, and this wasn't that much worse.

She turned around then but froze when her eyes landed on Paul.

She’d always only seen him fully dressed, and it was somehow shocking to see him now, shirtless and wearing nothing but pajama pants. Her eyes automatically registered the sight of his smooth shoulders, strong arms, efficiently sculpted chest, and hard abdomen. His black pajama pants were made of a very soft, thin fabric, and they molded the powerful contours of his legs.

They were also riding low on hips, and there was something mesmerizing about the way his lean abdomen tapered down to the waistline of his pants, as if the rippling lines of his body were leading her eyes down on purpose.

Emily gulped and turned away, pretending to wipe her damp hands on a dry towel. She suddenly felt hot and jittery, and it was a highly unsettling feeling. She’d found men attractive before, of course, but she’d never felt so tense and heated just from the sight of a man’s bare chest.

“Are you feeling all right?” Paul asked, walking over to pick up the towel and wipe some water Emily hadn’t noticed off the counter.

“Yeah. Just needed some water. Sorry about all the ruckus.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at him again, and this time she got the profile view, highlighting his flat belly and the curve of his tight ass, since he'd turned slightly away from her too. Her eyes darted down, quite unconsciously, to his groin. He didn't have a hard-on or anything, of course, but the soft fabric didn’t leave anything to the imagination, and she definitely saw something there.

She flashed briefly to the idea that they were married. They could be having sex. They could have sex tonight, if both of them wanted to.

She wanted to have sex with him, a lot more now than she had when they’d first wed. She hadn’t known Paul as well before, so it was sex in general she was interested in. Now, however, she really liked him. And she really liked the idea of sex with him.

Seeing him like this made her body like the idea of sex with him.

But they’d taken sex off the table until her eighteenth birthday. It had been hard enough to bring the topic up the first time and mortifying when he'd rejected her, so there was no use to even think about it again until she turned eighteen. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to work up the courage even then.

“I thought you’d already got a bottle of water before bed,” Paul said with a frown.

She rolled her eyes, her unexpected physical response to him making her feel flustered and a little irritable. “I finished that one and needed another.”

She turned around to face him again, determined not to act like a trembling virgin just because Paul appeared without a shirt. He would probably be appalled if he knew the direction of her thoughts.

She saw him draw his eyebrows together. “Are you okay? Do you have a—”

“I don’t have a fever,” she snarled, “I’m just thirsty. Stop fussing.”

Paul blinked at her tone.

“Sorry,” she said, tempering her voice and feeling like an ungrateful ass. “I’m really fine. Sorry I woke you.”

He gave a half-shrug and walked over to the refrigerator himself, evidently deciding he wanted water too since he was up and they were talking about it.

Emily couldn’t help but check out his bare back, since she was offered the view. The strong lines of his shoulders and the planes of his back were graceful and powerful—nothing over-developed or ungainly about him. But Emily was immediately distracted by something else.

She gasped loudly and stepped toward him. “God, Paul, what happened?”

“What—” he began, glancing at her over his shoulder. Then he must have realized what had diverted her.

He stiffened. “It’s nothing.” He tried to turn around, but he was trapped by the open refrigerator door and by Emily, who had moved in closer.

“Nothing?” she repeated, overwhelmed by horror and outrage at the sight of the network of ragged scars all over Paul’s lean back. The lines were white, so they must have been old. The idea of his being hurt so badly made her sick. “This is horrible, Paul! Who did this to you?”

“Emily, I said it was—” Paul began, sounding awkward and uncomfortable.

As he spoke, without any conscious volition, Emily’s hand reached out, and her fingers traced one of the longest scar lines, just at his shoulder blade.

As soon as she touched him, Paul broke off his words and jerked away, his sudden motion causing the bottles in the refrigerator door to clatter. “It’s no big deal,” he gritted out, pushing her backward slightly so he could close the door. “Don’t be melodramatic.”

“Melodramatic?” she repeated in astonishment. Her heart throbbed and her vision almost blurred as she tried to process his being hurt so badly. This was so much different than the faint bruises he’d noticed on her arm a week ago. “Paul, please, what happened?”

Paul’s tight face softened slightly, but he stood with his back against the counter, evidently so she couldn’t see the scars. “It’s really not as bad as it looks. Several years ago, I…I fell.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Fell on what?”

“Against the doors of a china cabinet.” He swallowed, not meeting her eyes. “The glass panes shattered.”

Emily covered her mouth with her hand, the visual his words had evoked appalling. “How did you fall?”

Someone wouldn’t accidentally fall backward into a china cabinet.

When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Did he…did he push you?”

“He didn’t mean to. We were arguing, and I got in his face. He never hit me or anything.”

Her heart almost broke at the sight of his stiff, guarded face.

Emily had lost her father, but he had loved her.

Poor Paul hadn’t been so lucky.

She couldn’t believe she’d thought his life was easy—just a few weeks ago.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Paul said again, his eyes darting over to check her expression. “All the cuts were fairly superficial.”

“Superficial?” she breathed, stepping over to the counter and nudging him away so she could see again.

The scars crisscrossed his whole back, some thicker than others, and she’d never known his back was torn up this way.

“Do they hurt?” she asked softly, tracing the line of one of them gently with her fingers, even though he’d pulled away from her before. It was a stupid question, but her heart ached for him. Something tender and protective rose up inside her, stronger than anything she’d experienced before.

“Not anymore.” He stood very stiffly with his head lowered, but he didn’t jerk away this time.

She followed the line of another scar, brushing it with her fingertips. Then found another one, lower, near his waistband, that looked deeper and more jagged than the rest. His skin was warm and firm, even at the scars. She had no idea why she felt compelled to touch them—just wished her touch had the power to heal. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

She heard his breath hitch strangely, and he muttered, “Emily, please don’t.” He took a couple of awkward steps away from her. He opened the refrigerator again and stared inside, as if he remembered he’d never gotten his bottle of water.

Emily gazed at him, bewildered and disoriented. He’d sounded almost bad-tempered with her, and it hurt her feelings. She made herself think through it rationally, though, and she realized she’d pushed too hard, forced an emotional intimacy on him that he wasn’t comfortable with.

Just because stroking his scars made her feel like she was somehow helping him didn’t mean that was what Paul himself would want. She’d gone way beyond the bounds of their relationship. They didn't pour their hearts out to each other. They respected each other's privacy, and they didn't make each other uncomfortable.

She had no idea what she was thinking in trying to do all three just now.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

He shook his head, a little jerkily, still staring into the refrigerator. Only his head and shoulders were visible above the door, so she could no longer see most of his scars. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I have a bottle of water?” she asked, since that was her purpose in coming out here at all.

He handed her one without comment. Then told her goodnight. And he was still standing there staring into the refrigerator when Emily hurried into her room to hide.

* * *

Things returned to normal in the morning.

When Emily woke up, she lay in bed for a few minutes and reoriented herself.

Last night had been a stumble, but it was recoverable. She'd slipped into acting like she had a normal friendship with Paul, but that just wasn't the case. There were forced limits on her relationship with him. Those limits were set by her impending death.

Their friendship didn't have a future, so it had to be about keeping each other company in the present. That didn't mean she couldn’t care about him—she did, a lot more than she would have imagined she could—but there was no sense in pushing it deeper. That would be hard, for both of them, and there wasn't any point to it.

She was self-aware enough to know that, if she hadn't been dying, she would have been in danger of falling head-over-heels in love with Paul. It wasn't just that he was an incredibly attractive man. He was also funny and intelligent and generous and more considerate than she'd known him to be. But Emily's life now was all about moments—experiencing moments, enjoying moments, living moment by moment. And the nature of love assumed a future.

She had no future.

So, after assessing her emotional condition, she determined that things were going well with Paul. She was enjoying his company, and she thought he must be enjoying hers too, at least to a certain extent. They cared about each other, and the sacrifices Paul was making for her would be rewarded with the knowledge that he'd done something incredibly good, something worthwhile.

That would matter to him.

Hopefully, after she was gone, he could think back on her sometimes as a fond memory of a girl to whom he'd once given an incredible gift.

She emerged from her bedroom, fully dressed and ready to be cheerful and natural. She wasn't surprised that Paul was already up and dressed himself. They had a quick, pleasant breakfast in the room, with no hint of the awkwardness of the previous night, before they went to visit the Empire State Building.

Paul had made arrangements for them to get a private visit to the 103rd floor of the building, the very top usually available only to visiting dignitaries and celebrities.

Emily was quite sure she wasn’t either a dignitary or a celebrity, but she wasn’t about to complain. She had a great time gawking over the view. Paul was well-informed on almost everything, and he seemed to be in a light, charming mood. While she didn’t like this mood as much as the dry, fond humor that seemed somehow more genuine, she wasn’t about to complain about having a fun, intelligent companion to see New York City with.

It was much better than the awkward tension of the night before.

After they finished at the Empire State Building, they strolled through Central Park and ended up having brunch in a trendy little bistro on 5th Avenue that specialized in cheese. It was packed out, but Paul had made reservations and had predictably snared the best table in the restaurant.

Emily stuffed herself on scrumptious pancetta and gouda soufflé and hot beignets that melted in her mouth. Paul kept her giggling with stories about his trips to New York with friends in college and with every random detail he knew about cheese.

“Did you want to do some shopping?” Paul asked, after they’d finished their meals and had drifted into a satiated quiet.

Shopping was exactly what she wanted to do, but she had almost no money of her own, and she was determined not to spend Paul’s money on a pointless splurge for herself. He’d already spent a small fortune on her.

She just gave a little shrug, “Since we’re right here, I wouldn’t mind doing some window shopping. Maybe look around at the stores you’re supposed to see when you come to New York.”

Paul gave a faint sneer. “I’ve never seen a woman who shops like you.”

Emily giggled at his expression, but she didn’t try to justify herself. She knew whatever she bought wouldn’t make a dent in Paul’s bank account, but that wasn’t really the point.

They strolled down 5th Avenue and stopped in some of the high-end designer stores, where Emily gaped at the ludicrously expensive, stylish clothes. Paul tried to talk her into buying some of them, but she managed to refrain from caving, much to her husband’s annoyance.

She sustained her resolve with admirable strength until she passed the small boutique of a designer Emily wasn't familiar with.  She saw the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen in the window display.

She stopped abruptly and stared at it, lusting for that dress more than any piece of clothing she’d ever laid eyes on.

It was a dark gray silk shirtdress with a knee-length pencil skirt, a wide collar, and a belt with a beautiful onyx buckle. The dressed looked both vintage and stylish, and Emily could vividly see herself in it.

She swallowed and forced her eyes away, starting to walk again, although leaving that dress in the window was almost painful.

With an impatient shake of his head, Paul took her arm and dragged her into the boutique.

He made her try it on, and the saleswoman found some shoes to try on with it. The outfit looked so good on her Emily couldn’t lie when she emerged from the dressing area and Paul asked if she wanted to buy it.

“How much is it?” she asked the saleswoman, in the futile hope that it wasn’t as expensive as she feared.

Paul had already pulled out his credit card. He handed it to the saleswoman with a murmured, “Don’t tell her.”

Emily gasped indignantly and glared at him.

He met her glare evenly as the saleswoman happily rang up the dress and shoes.

Emily was trying to hold on to her righteous indignation, but she saw Paul hiding a smile. Then, always unable to take herself too seriously, she relaxed into a little laugh. “Fine. Thank you very much for the dress you forced on me. You’re a shopping bully. You know that, don’t you?”

He chuckled, his eyes warm and fond the way they’d been on Tuesday evening when they were eating on the terrace. “Since you’ve given into me once, I’m guessing I can bully you into a few more purchases.”

“Don’t count on it.” Emily firmly believed she was right.

She was wrong, of course. He somehow convinced her to let him buy her a gorgeous tote, which she justified because she might need it on the trip to Egypt. Then, at Tiffany & Co., he insisted on getting her a pair of emerald earrings she was pretending not to stare at that would match her ring and necklace.

But that was all. It certainly could have been worse.

Paul was pretty pleased with himself as they returned to their suite to rest before dinner. The truth was—Emily was pleased with him too.

* * *

That evening, Emily gazed at herself in the mirror and was forced to conclude that she’d never looked more stylish and sexy in her life.

She was wearing her new dress, and the fitted shape and slippery fabric flattered her figure, hugging the curve of her breasts and sliding over the contour of her hips. She’d been worried about the pencil skirt, since she didn’t have the incredibly long legs of a model, but with her new snake-print pumps with very high heels, even her legs looked svelte.

She tried unbuttoning one more button at her neckline and decided the cleavage exposed was deep but not inappropriate. She liked the way the dress draped better that way, and her breasts had always been one of her better features.

She’d spent much more time on eye makeup than normal, and she’d put on dark lipstick, which she almost never wore. She liked the effect. She looked polished, almost like she could belong with Paul.

Her uncharacteristic sophistication was compounded by the addition of her wedding necklace and her new earrings, which both looked perfect with the dress.

Her only frustration was her hair. She’d been growing it out for a couple of months, and it was at a weird in-between length. When she pulled it up into the French twist she always wore to dress up, it was too bulky in the back.

She unpinned it again, letting it fall down on her shoulders, and took a breath before she raised her arms to twist it up again.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her, and she let her hair fall back down.

“Emily,” Paul called from the other side of the door. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” she said, wrapping her hair up with her hand one more time. “I’m ready.”

Paul must have taken her words for an invitation to come in. As he opened the door, he said, “I made reservations for six-thirty to give us plenty of time before the show starts, but I can move them if…”

His words trailed off as he processed her appearance. He wore all black—black trousers, black dress shirt, black jacket, and black shoes—and he looked scrumptious enough to eat.

Emily dropped her hair again and displayed her outfit, a little self-consciously. “What do you think?”

He just kept staring at her, his eyes moving up and down her body with unusual intensity.

“Does that mean it’s good?” she asked, blushing slightly as she turned back toward the mirror to verify that she still looked as pretty as she thought. “Hopefully, you’re not speechless in horror.”

“It’s good,” Paul said hoarsely, dragging his eyes up to her face.

She smiled at him in the mirror, feeling strangely shy. He was still frozen in place, and he looked astonished or something. He hadn't been particularly effusive in his compliments, but she was sure it was admiration in his eyes. She figured he must be surprised that she’d managed to look so sexy and sophisticated this evening.

“Just let me finish my hair,” she told him, feeling a ripple of pleasure as she looked again at her reflection in the glass.  She’d felt something similar when she'd dressed to go to the prom with Chris that spring, and she’d felt something similar on her wedding day. But the way Paul was looking at her now made her feel even prettier today. “I’m having trouble getting it up.”

She tried once more to twist it into place and ended up with an unattractive bump of hair on the top of her head. She dropped her hands once more, groaning in frustration.

“Just leave it down,” Paul murmured, still watching her in the mirror.

She looked at her loose, rumpled hair rather dubious. “It’s all messy now.”

“I like it like that.”

Emily felt a little thrill at his words, but she gave him an ironic look over her shoulder. “You just say that because you want to get out the door.”

Paul smiled, his expression taking on that light, charming look he'd had all morning. “Of course.”

She gave up on her hair. They had limited time before the play started anyway, and she was starting to get hungry.

As she turned around, she got a glimpse of her ass. The pencil skirt emphasized the full curve of it, and the fabric was so thin she’d had to go without underwear, since she didn’t have a thong with her and all of her other pairs created an obvious panty-line. She made a face as she saw herself from this angle. “The dress doesn’t make my ass look too big, does it?”

Paul made a brief choked sound as his eyes lowered to that particular feature. “Of course not. Your ass looks great.”

* * *

Paul took her to a place he said had the best steak in New York. It was a dimly lit restaurant with swanky décor, and it seemed to match Emily’s sexy, sophisticated outfit.

She felt eyes on her as she and Paul walked to their table, and she couldn’t help but wonder what people thought of them. Paul dominated any room he entered—with his looks, his money, his brilliance, his presence, the charisma that seeped from his pores.

She could see women watch him, watch her because of him, and she couldn’t help but notice some female eyes would stray to his left hand, in an automatic check of his marital status.

Something inside her bloomed at being that girl—the one with the most desirable man in the room. She’d never been that girl before. She’d always been second-best, gazing from the outskirts at the Lauras of the world, the luckier girls, the girls who always got the guy.

But Paul was with her tonight, and everyone seemed to recognize it. It was her ring on his left hand. Even though the rational part of her brain recognized it was somewhat artificial, Emily didn’t really care.

She felt special, and Paul was treating her like she was his date, smiling, giving her compliments, laughing at her jokes, and making sure she had everything she wanted. His eyes weren't roving around the room, searching for someone more attractive. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed to genuinely like her now, genuinely enjoy being with her.

It didn’t have to be love. It didn’t have to be a real marriage. It didn’t have to last longer than the evening.

For once, Emily felt like the girl she’d always wanted to be.

The girl men might actually want.

She’d finished her steak—which might have been the best piece of meat she’d ever eaten—and was starting on her dark chocolate mousse when she felt an inexplicable bubble of emotion rising in her throat.

Paul was being light and charming like he’d been most of the day, and his demeanor just strengthened the thrilling, surreal quality of the evening. He must have noticed something on her face, though, because he halted the story he was telling and peered at her closely. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, feeling silly for her emotional response to the evening and incapable of explaining it to him without feeling like an absolute idiot.

“Are you sick?” His eyes scanned her face, looking urgent in a way they hadn’t all day.

“No,” she replied, trying to suppress a flash of annoyance. She wasn’t going to ruin her fairy-tale evening by having an argument with Paul about his constant inquiries about her health. “I’m fine. I was just having a good time.”

He seemed like he wanted to question her more, but the manager came over then to ask them how their meal was. The manager was a young, attractive brunette—like Laura or the models Paul used to date—and she definitely seemed to have noticed his appeal.

She stayed for a while to chat, ostensibly with both of them, but her eyes rarely made their way over to the other side of the table. Emily definitely didn’t miss the way the woman checked out both Paul’s ring finger and Emily’s.

Emily felt a ridiculous vindication at the flicker of disappointment in the woman’s eyes at discovering Paul was married. It was such a petty feeling that Emily tried not to indulge it, but she’d never been someone other women were jealous of.

Paul was polite and friendly with the manager, but after a few minutes he said, “We better get going soon.  Are you ready, Emily?”

Then, when they stood up to leave, he put his hand on the small of her back as they walked out.

Emily decided she better go the bathroom at the restaurant, in case the theater restrooms were crowded. After she’d gone and then washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the elegant, sensual woman she saw there. Even her ass didn't look too bad.

She knew Paul was waiting, so she didn’t linger to admire her gorgeousness more than a minute.

Paul wasn’t waiting right outside, so she walked toward the entrance of the restaurant. She paused as she turned a corner and saw him talking with the brunette manager again.

The woman was tall, slim, and darkly gorgeous—and she was now flirting big-time with Paul. Emily could see it immediately in the kinds of smiles, hair tosses, and slanted glances the woman was throwing at him.

Paul was smiling back, with his eyes as well as his mouth.

Emily stood frozen as she watched. First, she was flooded with a wave of furious possessiveness. Paul was her husband, and that bitch was making a play for him.

Her initial reaction didn’t last long, though. Emily wasn’t a fool. She knew Paul didn't belong to her. He cared about her—more now than he had a month ago—but he never would have married her under normal circumstances. He never would have even gone out with her.

He wasn't really hers.

Emily turned on her heel and hurried back to the restroom. Stared back into the mirror and made herself face the truth.

She wasn’t really that woman. She was just Emily, and she’d always known what it meant to be one of the Emilys of the world.

Paul was being incredibly generous in giving her a wonderful end to her life, but she had to keep the reality in perspective. She was allowed to enjoy the daydreams, as long as she didn’t believe they were real.

It would only lead to this kind of kick in the gut when the fuzziness finally cleared.

It always cleared eventually.

Emily had never been the girl that men wanted, and that wasn’t going to change now.

Her fairy-tale prom with Chris had ended without even a kiss. Her fairy-tale wedding had ended with her husband refusing to have sex with her. And her fairy-tale evening of being sexy and sophisticated would end with her husband flirting with the kind of woman he really liked.

Story of her life.

She just wasn’t destined for the happy ending.

Her shoulders shook with a few helpless sobs, but she stifled them almost immediately.

It didn’t matter. It didn't matter. She still had good things left to look forward to. She was going to see Henry V tonight. She was going to see the Pyramids tomorrow.

Ultimately it wouldn't matter since she only had a couple of months left to be anyone at all.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, feeling more like herself. She’d always been tough. She’d always taken care of herself. There was no reason that had to change.

She was about to leave the bathroom when the beautiful manager came in.

“Oh, hi,” the woman said, with a smile that looked a little fake. “I told him you were probably just redoing your makeup, but your husband was worried for some reason and wanted me to check on you.”

Emily blinked. “Oh. I’m fine. I’m coming.”

She followed the woman out of the restroom to find Paul pacing in the hall. When he saw her, he took three strides over and searched her face in concern. He must have been looking for signs of illness, but he evidently saw something else.

“You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied with a bright smile. “Sorry I took so long.”

“Emily,” Paul persisted, a warning note in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Emily forced out between clenched teeth, flushing hotly at having this conversation in front of the gorgeous woman who’d been flirting with him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Paul looked like he would argue, but then he noticed the manager too. He took Emily’s arm, although his grip was tighter than civility called for, and walked them out of the restaurant.

Emily fought to keep her expression neutral, although her emotions were a confused, tumultuous jumble. As they were waiting on the sidewalk for the car to pull up, she noticed Paul searching her face again.

He was worried about her. She could see it in the urgency of his eyes, the tension in his features. He thought she was sick or grieving—not moping because no one had ever really thought she was pretty.

For some reason, that thought pushed her into tears again. She turned her face away from Paul so he wouldn’t see her contorting her features in an attempt to stifle the sobs.

Evidently, he saw it anyway. He sucked in a harsh breath, and his hand tightened on her arm. She could feel the intensity pulsing from him, but he waited until they’d gotten into the car to ask her again.

He didn’t really ask. He demanded, “Tell me what the hell is wrong.”

“Nothing,” she said over the painful lump in her throat. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”

“Something is wrong. Stop lying to me.” He grabbed her face in one of his warm hands and turned it so it was facing him. “Tell me what upset you so much.”

She thought frantically, trying to come up with something, anything, to tell him. There was just no way she could tell him the truth.  “It’s…it’s nothing. I was just having a good evening. And…and I started to think about…about being sick.”  She improvised as she stumbled through an explanation and hoped it would be convincing.

The truth was she was doing her best to forget that she was sick at all. If she thought about it, she couldn’t fully enjoy her final months—so she kept forcing the bleak reality to the back of her mind.

Paul didn’t have to know that, though.

He dropped his hand from her face, and his intensity softened. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her, though, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. He didn’t say anything. Just watched her.

She looked away, since his eyes were too penetrating. Gazing out the window at the crowded street, she stammered, “I’m sorry I took so long. But…but you looked occupied, so I figured it would…it would be all right if…”

“What?” Paul interrupted.

Emily blinked over at him, trying to think through her broken rambles. “What what?”

“What do you mean I looked occupied?”

She suddenly realized her mistake. She never would have slipped so foolishly if she hadn’t still been fighting lingering tears. “Nothing. I meant nothing.”

“Emily,” he said, his voice thick and intimidating.

She could have held out. She was strong enough to put her foot down, even with Paul Marino. But, for some reason, she heard herself saying, “It’s nothing. I just meant you were talking to that woman, so I thought—”

“Damn it, Emily. Did you actually think I was hitting on her?”

“No. No. I mean, even if you were, that would be all right. I know we’re not—”

Paul was really angry now—angrier than she’d seen him since the night she’d tried to sneak out of the apartment. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he broke into her garbled explanation. “You really think I would hook up with another woman while my wife was in the bathroom?”

“No,” she mumbled, staring down at her twisting hands. “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re not the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife. But, since we’re not really married, I would understand if—”

Paul grabbed her left hand with his left hand and displayed the rings in a rough, frustrated gesture. “We are married. For whatever reason, we are married. I’m not going to cheat on you.”

Emily stared at their rings, the platinum band on his long, masculine finger and her rings on her much smaller hand.

The sight had pleased her earlier in the evening, feeding into the daydream she was indulging. But now it seemed more real, more strange, more inexplicable. It made her chest hurt.

“Didn’t you know that before?” Paul asked, his voice still gravelly. “Didn't you know I wasn't going to sleep around? What kind of man do you think I am?”

“I did know,” she said in a rush, feeling a wave of intense guilt because she’d never meant to insult him but somehow still had. “I know you aren't that kind of man.”

Just a couple of months ago, she would have said he was.

“But you were crying in the bathroom. You must have thought…” Paul trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

“No, no, no. I wasn’t crying because I thought you were making plans for a sleazy affair. I just…I mean, I was upset because…I was just enjoying feeling like…like someone else, and then I was kind of hit by the reminder that I’m…that I’m not.”

“You aren’t what?” The resentment and impatience had faded from his face during her halting attempt to explain, and he looked more thoughtful than anything else now.

She gave a long sigh and leaned back against the seat of the car, closing her eyes as she admitted the truth. “I’m not the girl who gets the guy that everyone wants.”

The silence following her words stretched on so long that Emily realized how Paul might have misinterpreted her words. Her eyes flew open, and she saw Paul staring at her blankly. She said, “Not that I was thinking it was romantic between us or anything.  I’m not crazy. I wasn’t ever thinking that. I was just having fun pretending I was the girl everyone envies because… because she’s got the best guy.”

She was so mortified by having told Paul the truth that she dropped her face into her hands and tried to breathe.

After a minute, she realized Paul still hadn’t answered. When she looked up, she saw he was still gazing at her with the strangest expression.

“Paul, I’m so sorry,” she said, the words cracking in her throat. She reached over and put her hand on his sleeve. “I really wasn’t thinking that you were going to cheat on me. I was just thinking that maybe you…you’d prefer to be with the kind of woman you really like. And that just got me going with some old issues.” She attempted a dry laugh, although it was more of a snuffle. “You’d think that dying would put your issues in perspective, but I can’t seem to shake some of them.”

When he still didn’t answer, she asked, “Are you really mad at me?”

“No,” Paul said at last. “I’m not mad. I think I…understand.”

Emily collapsed back against the seat, feeling like an absolute fool but relieved that she hadn’t ruined her friendship with Paul. To her surprise, he reached over and pulled her against his side, the weight of his arm around her warm and incredibly comforting. He smelled like Paul, so she breathed him in.

After a minute, he murmured, “Emily, half the men in the restaurant were jealous of me this evening.”

“What?” She didn’t pull away from him. Just twisted her neck so she could peer up at his face.

“You heard me. You may not have noticed, but I definitely did. Men were checking you out, sizing me up, concluding I must have money because otherwise I’d never be able to get a woman like you.”

Emily straightened up, one of her hands fisting in his jacket lapel. “That’s ridiculous. I appreciate your attempt to boost my ego, but you have to be somewhat realistic in the exaggeration for it to work.”

He ignored her light irony and shook his head. “It’s the truth. Everywhere I looked, some other guy was leering at my wife. Honestly, I found it rather obnoxious.”

If it hadn’t been for the faintly aggrieved tone of his last words, she wouldn’t have believed him, but he seemed to be telling the truth. She gave a little giggle, just an overflow of too much emotion, and nestled back under Paul’s arm.

They were almost to the theater when Paul murmured, without any segue, “Not even once have I wanted to cheat on you.”

A swell of relief and affection rose in her throat. She knew they weren’t in love and that the marriage was mostly a sham. She knew, after she died, he would go back to pursuing the women he really wanted. But she still would have hated for her husband to be having lecherous thoughts about other women while she was around.

All she said was, “Good. Me either.”

* * *

Paul dropped his light, charming demeanor like the façade it always was. When they went into the theater, he didn’t tell her any funny stories or give her any pretty compliments. He was quiet at first. Then he was annoyed because there was some sort of mix-up with their tickets and it took a couple of minutes to sort it out.

Then he started telling her about the English history leading up to the events of the play, and he got wrapped up in the explanation with an intensity that made otherwise boring details absolutely fascinating. Then, during the intermission, when Emily was feeling tired and kind of achy, he peered at her with concerned scrutiny and put a hand on her forehead to check her temperature.

All of it was Paul. And Emily liked all of it—the quietness, the grumpiness, the intensity, the concern—better than when he had been light and charming.

The play was amazing, and they got back to the hotel very late. Emily had to conclude, despite the minor emotional upheavals, it had been a very good day. Plus, they were flying to Egypt tomorrow.

She was absolutely exhausted, and she was feeling even more achy than before, probably because they'd done so much today. So she took a couple of Tylenol and went to bed.

***

Emily was so achy she could barely force herself out of bed the next morning.

She sat on the side of the mattress, trying to catch her breath and assess her condition. Her whole body hurt, and she felt hot and clammy at the same time. She drank several gulps of water from the bottle at her bedside. After a minute, she convinced herself that she was just tired and sore from the long day of shopping and sightseeing yesterday.

Today she was going to Egypt. She only had a very small window of time to do everything on her list, and she wasn’t going to miss one of the things she was most excited about.

So she managed to shower and dress, although she had to sit down for a few minutes to recover afterwards. Her head was throbbing now, and she had started to shiver a little, but she was finally able to rouse herself enough to leave her bedroom and head into the parlor of their suite.

Naturally, Paul was already up, looking cool and attractive. He was working at the desk on his laptop and had probably been up for a while.

The effort it took to get dressed and walk into the parlor had made Emily a little dizzy, but she gave him as cheerful a good-morning as she could manage.

Paul looked up and smiled at her in a way she liked—a quiet smile but one that felt real. “How are you?”

Consecutive waves of hot and cold prompted a sudden feeling of panic. She forced out, “Fine,” and walked over to the room service cart where she always got her coffee.

The scent of coffee hit her nose and made her feel ill. Heat seemed to pulse out of the stainless steel carafe. Instead of coffee, she poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice with shaking hands and went to sit on a chair by a window far away from Paul.

She could feel his eyes on her as she tried to sip her juice.

“Emily?” Paul prompted after a stretch of silence.

She made a wordless mumble of response, wishing her body didn’t hurt so much so she could think more clearly.

Then Paul—damn him—got out of his chair and walked over to where she sat. He scrutinized her in his usual way, looking for signs of her dying.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, her tone far sharper than was warranted. “I’m just tired after yesterday.”

Paul didn’t reply with words. He reached out and put a hand on her forehead.

Emily tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere she could go.

“Damn it, Emily,” Paul said curtly, putting his hand on her forehead again. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She tried to glare at him with imposing indignation, but she felt so sick she was afraid she might cry.

“Come here,” he murmured, his voice a little husky as he reached down to pull her to her feet. “You need to get back into bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” She tried to pull away from him, but she was too weak and unsteady on her feet. “We have to make our flight.”

“You can’t go with a fever.” Paul sounded mild now, gentle, but his arm at her back was strong as he guided her into her bedroom.

She felt like she was choking on the pain in her body, the oppressive heat, and the crushing disappointment. Her shoulders shook a few times—quite unwillingly—but she wasn’t going to let herself cry. As Paul helped her off with her cardigan and shoes, she mumbled, “Maybe it won’t last very long.”

Paul unlatched her watch and slid it from her wrist. “Maybe it won’t,” he agreed, easing her down so she was lying in her unmade bed.

She peered up at him fuzzily, trying to read the expression on his face. He didn’t look or sound tender or pitying. Just mild. At least he didn’t look annoyed at her for trying to act like she wasn’t sick.

“I’ll be right back,” he said before walking out of her room.

She was starting to shiver again, so she pulled the covers up until they were tucked under her chin. She felt absolutely miserable, but at least when she was lying down she didn’t feel quite so dizzy.

Paul returned in less than a minute, and he had in his hand a thermometer that took her temperature by being held against her head for just a few seconds.

“What is it?” Emily asked, her teeth chattering, when he pulled his arm back and read the display. She felt kind of like a child and didn’t like that feeling at all, but she couldn't seem to do anything about it.

“102⁰,” Paul muttered, his eyes shifting from the thermometer to her face. “No wonder you feel so bad.”

“Maybe it won’t last long,” she said again. “And we can still fly out later today.”

Paul’s eyes softened as they rested on her. “I’m sorry, Emily. You can’t go anywhere today.”

“But—” she began, before she cut herself off. There was no sense in arguing. Paul had made it clear that, about her health, he would dig in his heels. She just didn’t have the energy anyway. She curled up on her side. “I really wanted to cross it off my list.”

“I know, but we’ll go in a couple of days when you’re feeling better.”

Her eyes widened in sudden hope. “We can still go?”

“Of course. I’ll just reschedule everything.  Now get some rest. I’m going to call the doctor.”

Emily released a long sigh and closed her eyes, relieved that everything wasn’t completely ruined. The darkness throbbed behind her closed eyelids. Her attempt to cheer herself up by visualizing all she would see in Egypt ended up as a bizarre, vibrating picture of her and Paul hopping over the Pyramids.

It wasn’t long before the crazy image shifted into the blackness of sleep.

* * *

She was jarred awake by a gentle hand on her shoulder and a soft voice saying, “Emily? Can you wake up?”

She groaned as the world closed in around her with hot, achy heaviness.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said, pushing her hair away from her face. “The doctor’s here.”

She tried to make herself focus on his familiar face. His gray eyes were soft like before as he straightened up. Then she shifted her gaze to another man standing beside her bed. He was middle-aged and balding and smiling at her.

“Hello,” she managed to croak. Her mouth was painfully dry, and she fumbled for her water until Paul moved the bottle into her hand.

“Sorry you’re feeling poorly, Mrs. Marino,” the doctor said, reaching over to take her temperature with a thermometer similar to Paul’s. “I talked to Dr. Franklin, and he updated me on your case. This will only take a few minutes, and then I’ll let you rest again.”

Emily nodded, deciding that would do for a response, since her throat was aching and she didn’t feel like talking.

“102.9⁰,” the doctor said, reading the thermometer.

“It’s gone up almost a whole degree since I called you,” Paul said. He was speaking softly and to the doctor.

“It may keep going up.” The doctor smiled pleasantly as he took Emily’s blood pressure, listened to her chest, and checked her throat. “Everything looks fine,” he told her. “You’re going to feel sick for a while, but it’s early yet and it shouldn’t last very long.”

She nodded mutely again, her teeth starting to chatter as her body shifted suddenly from hot to cold. Her neck hurt, her thighs hurt, her fingers hurt, her eyes hurt. She heard herself making a helpless sound through her shivering.

“Find her another blanket,” the doctor said. He’d turned his back to her now and was talking to Paul. “Don’t let her shiver like that—it increases the core body temperature and could raise her fever.”

Since her part of the ordeal seemed to be over, Emily closed her eyes and huddled under the covers. Someone walked over and put another blanket over her—it smelled like Paul but it would hurt too much to open her eyes, so she didn’t actually see him drape it over her. The extra blanket helped. She stopped shivering almost immediately.

A minute later, she heard voices again. They were farther away now. Outside her room. She could hear them, though.

“Keep checking her temperature regularly,” the doctor said. “Every half hour. If it gets above 105⁰, give me a call and we’ll decide if we need to take her to the hospital. But, if she follows the same course as her aunt, then I don’t think the fever will spike that high this time.”

“What can I do for her?” That voice was obviously Paul’s.

“Stagger the dosages of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, so she can take something as often as possible. Try to keep her comfortable—with cool rags or maybe a tepid bath. Don’t let her shiver. Keep her hydrated. She can eat if she wants to, but don’t make her.”

“Okay.”

“I know you’re worried about your wife, Mr. Marino, but I don’t think this fever should last very long. The early ones her aunt had didn't. Give me a call if you have any questions today, and I’ll check in with you tomorrow regardless.”

The voice disappeared then. Emily was curled in a tight ball and thought she was still listening. She couldn’t quite figure out what happened to the disembodied voices.

She was concentrating so hard on listening that she jumped when Paul’s voice sounded from just above her. “Emily?”

She opened one eye and glared at him malevolently out of it.

“I’m sorry. Can you sit up and take these pills? Then you can go to sleep, and no one will bother you.”

Paul didn’t really give her a choice, since he pulled her up gently into a sitting position and put what looked like Advil pills in her hand. She swallowed them obediently with the water he handed her, although they hurt as they went down her throat.

“I’m going to sleep now,” she told him, rather raspily but with what she thought was appropriate authority.

“An excellent plan.” He walked over and pulled the room-darkening curtains closed, and it didn’t seem so terrible to keep her eyes open.

But she didn’t need to keep her eyes open now, so she closed them.

* * *

The next time conscious awareness pushed its painful way into her mind, her body hurt even worse. She was so hot that, for a moment, it felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She pushed the covers off frantically and took several ragged gasps.

“Emily?”

The voice grated on her nerves so she ignored it. She wasn’t even sure where it came from. She tossed on the bed, kicking at the covers and trying to find a cool spot on the sheet.

She was sweating, and her clothes were oppressive and confining. The ponytail was poking into the back of her head, and her bra was wretchedly tight.

Her eyes were tightly closed, but she jerked when something touched her head. She opened her eyes to discover what had touched her and gave a little sob because the dim room seemed to blind her.

She saw Paul, still looking cool and handsome in his blue shirt, checking the thermometer.

She sucked in more air and closed her eyes, wanting everything to just go away. Her ponytail poked her so horribly that she reached up and yanked the elastic out of her hair and threw the band blindly across the room.

Then she felt something deliciously cold and wet on her forehead. It moved slowly to her cheeks and her neck. She sighed in relief as her face started to cool a little.

When she opened her eyes again, it wasn’t quite so unbearable.

“Do you think you can get up and change clothes?” Paul asked, still wiping her face with the cool, wet washcloth. “I think you’d feel better. I should have had you change earlier.”

Emily wanted desperately to get out of her bra, and that was enough incentive to heave herself into a sitting position.

The room whirled sickening at the change of position. For some reason, it made her realize something else.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she mumbled. She was horrified at the idea of walking all the way across the room.

Paul nodded and put down the wet washcloth.  “Okay. I’ll help you get there.”

Emily hauled her legs over the side of the bed and sat for a minute, breathing deeply and getting her balance. Then she let Paul help her up with an arm around her waist, and she leaned on him as she hobbled across the room.

His body was so warm that it made her feel even hotter, but at least he was strong and hard—good for leaning on. Her legs were working better by the time she got to the bathroom, and she told him, “I’ll be all right in here. Can you find me something cool to wear?” She gestured toward the packed luggage she’d intended to take to Egypt.

Paul looked a little dubious about leaving her to her own devices, but she found enough energy to close the door in his face.

She just wasn’t going to pee in front of Paul.

After she’d gone to the bathroom, she leaned on the sink as another wave of heat flooded her body. She was sweating again, so she splashed cold water on her face. It felt good, but she got her loose hair wet, and it clung to her skin in an irritating way.

Since the ponytail in the back of her head had driven her crazy, she fumbled in her makeup bag for two elastic bands and pulled her hair into two low, loose ponytails, which would hopefully keep it off her neck but not poke her so painfully in the head.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized she looked like an eight-year-old, but she felt too bad to even care.

There was a tap on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was croaking again, and the effort she’d exerted caught up with her. She closed the toilet and sat on it, afraid she might fall over.

Paul came in with her change of clothes—a white tank-top and pale blue cotton sleep shorts. “Do you need help?”

She shook her head and groped for the clothes, wanting to give him some sort of thanks but not having the energy.

He only shut the bathroom door partway on his way out, but she barely noticed. She dragged off her top and pants and was finally able to take off her damned bra. After she dropped the clothes on the floor in a heap, she pulled on the much cooler tank and shorts.

She rallied herself enough to stand and then limped out to the bedroom.

Paul was waiting, and he put his arm around her again to support her on her way back to the bed.

He was hot—way too hot—and his arm at her waist was way too tight. She didn’t like it. She wanted it off her. But some vague awareness that he was trying to help made her bite her lip instead of snap at him to get away from her.

“Try to drink some water,” Paul said gently, handing her a fresh, cool bottle after she’d sat down on the edge of the bed.

She obediently took several cold swigs, although she choked on the last one and the coughing hurt her entire body.

“And you can take some Tylenol now,” he said, handing her the pills. “It should help.”

She didn’t want to swallow anything else, and she couldn’t seem to focus enough to coordinate her hand. One of the pills fell onto the floor, and she almost yelled at Paul since it felt like his fault for giving them to her.

He leaned down to pick the pill up so at least she didn’t have to do that.

She was flushed and perspiring from new waves of heat by the time she’d swallowed the pills and was able to lie down.

Paul tried to cover her up, but she yanked the covers out of his hand and kicked them down to the bottom of the bed.

She thought she’d made him mad—which was, for some reason, a satisfying thought—when he walked away from the bed. But he returned in just a moment and put a wonderfully cool washcloth on her forehead.

Emily released a raspy sigh as he wiped at her hot face. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking if she was perfectly still maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much.

It wasn’t long before the coolness became too cool. She mumbled out a wordless complaint as she felt the cold cloth on her neck, and her skin broke out in goose bumps. The wet cloth went away, and she groped blindly for the covers, but they were too far down the bed for her to reach. She writhed restlessly, her bare skin exposed to the cool of the room.

Then Paul pulled up the blankets and she was warm again. She tried to thank him—not because she felt grateful but because she was fuzzily aware that it was something civilized people were supposed to do—but all she heard was a hoarse mumble come out of her mouth.

Then he wasn’t standing next to the bed anymore, and it was a relief. She hoped he’d gone away.

She peeked out from under her lashes and saw that he hadn’t left the room after all. He was sitting on a chair, not far from the bed, with a book opened on his lap.

But he wasn’t reading the book. He was just watching her.

He was full of heat. He was making it hot in the room. Even his eyes were making her hotter. She grumbled under her breath and turned over on her other side, with her back to him so she wouldn’t get the full-force of his heat.

This was her room. He shouldn’t be sitting here. The chair must be uncomfortable, and he didn’t have anything to do but stare at her. He should go into another room where he could work or watch television.

She didn’t want him here. He was making her hot.

* * *

Emily was smothering. She was smothering. She couldn’t breathe through the heat bearing down on her.

She couldn’t breathe. She needed help. She needed help.

“Help!” she gasped through parched lips. Her body arched up with the panic of awareness.  It was dark. She was alone. And she was dying.

“Paul, help!”

“I’m here,” she heard. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Then something was cool on her forehead. On her cheeks. On her neck.  And she could almost breathe.

She heard drips of water, loud and grating, but then it was cool and wet again on her skin. She opened her mouth but it was dust dry, and she didn’t have breath enough to speak.

Then something cool and wet was in her mouth, dribbling down her chin. She swallowed instinctively and felt the water as it made its way down her aching throat.

She wanted more so she groped for it, but someone else’s hand was on the bottle, someone else’s hand was on the back of her head, tilting it up so she could drink.

When she’d had as much as she could, she pushed the water away. Then the hand lowered her head back down, and she tossed her head frantically on the pillow because it was just too hot.

Then she felt that coolness on her skin again. And fingers were pushing loose strands of hair off her face, making it cooler at her hairline too.

And she could breathe.

The world was a whirl of heat and pain, but at least she could breathe again.

* * *

She was on fire.

She was surrounded by fire. Her house was on fire, and she was inside it.

She wasn’t supposed to be inside it.

The fire was hot, scorching her, killing her.

Panic overwhelmed her—she wasn’t supposed to be in the house when it burned down—and she jerked up into a sitting position, trying to explain that the house burning down was just a warning. Vincent Marino had purposefully waited until there was no one home.

She said that she and her aunt had already left the house. They’d gone to a movie that evening. The theater would be dark and cool.

He lied to her. Paul must have lied to her. She was angry because she trusted him. He’d told her he would protect her, and then he’d let her and her aunt die.

She tried to move, tried to get out of the fire by herself, without anyone's help. But now something was holding her back. There were hands on her, and she couldn’t get away. She couldn’t move. She screamed at them to let her go.

Paul had lied to her. She had trusted him. And he’d let her down.

Her aunt was lost in the fire. And now the fire had her too.

She told them this—anyone who was listening. She yelled it at them so they would hear. And she struggled to get out of the strong, imprisoning hands.

But she couldn’t get them off her. And then it was worse.

The hands were picking her up, carrying her deeper into the fire, away from the movie theater where she wanted to go. Whoever had her was just as hot as the fire, just as strong, just as unrelenting.

She screamed and writhed to get away, but she couldn’t.

And then something happened. Something changed. She was surrounded, submerged in something cool. It covered her body, up to her neck, and it washed the fire away.

The hands were still there. They were still strong and unrelenting. And they were still in control of her body.

But it was okay. She told them it was okay.

Because at least the fire was gone.

* * *

Emily’s body was one overwhelming ache, but it felt like her mind had pierced through a thick fog. Each thought pained her, but there was something significant about being able to think at all.

She tossed restlessly under the sheets because she was so hot and uncomfortable. In the process, she became aware of something strange.

She was naked for some reason.

Her hair was wet, and it was sticking to her neck and face. She didn’t like it. Even her pillow seemed hotly damp.

She heard a muffled voice, coming from outside the room.

She didn’t immediately know who it was or what it meant.

“There’s got to be something more I can do for her,” the voice said. It was rough in a way she didn’t understand. “The last time I checked it was 104.7⁰. She was delirious—I could barely control her.”

She kicked her legs and punched her pillow, hoping it would cool things down. The voice was grating on her, and she wished it would stop. The thickness in the tone made something inside her hurt even more.

“I did that. I did everything. I put her in a tepid bath, like you’d suggested, and it seemed to help settle her down for now. But it’s just a temporary fix. What if she becomes delirious again? I can’t believe we don’t have medication that can better bring a fever down.”

The voice stopped again, and she thought maybe it was gone for good.

But it wasn’t. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call you if her fever spikes again.”

Then something clicked in Emily’s mind.

Paul. His name was Paul.

It was Paul’s voice she heard.

Poor Paul. She wished he wasn’t so upset.

* * *

It was dark in the room when Emily opened her eyes.

And her body—blessedly—didn’t hurt.

She wasn’t hot. She was actually a little chilly, and she felt sore and exhausted. But she realized her fever must be gone because she felt so incredibly better.

She dared to move her head to the side, and her eyes landed on the clock. It said 3:47. It was dark in the room, so it must be the middle of the night.

She had no idea what day it was. She was so hungry it felt like her stomach was trying to gnaw its way out of her body.

Feeling even more daring, she rolled onto her side, and she realized for the first time that she wasn’t alone in the room.

Paul was slouched in the chair—that same chair where he’d been sitting the last time she’d been aware of seeing him. Except this time he wasn’t watching her.

He was asleep.

He was slumped down in the seat, his legs stretched out in front of him. He wore the same black trousers he’d been wearing before, but now he had on a gray t-shirt. His head was tilted to the side, resting against the back of the chair, and his chest rose and fell slowly with his breathing.

She wondered how long he’d been sitting there. It was so strange to see him asleep.

In addition to the hunger, Emily became aware of another major discomfort in her body.

She needed to get to the bathroom right away.

She tried to sit up and was thrilled when her head didn’t spin. She felt incredibly weak, but no hot flashes or bone-deep aches.

She drank a quick gulp of water because her mouth was so dry. Then she started to stand up.

She gasped when she realized she was naked.

She seemed to know vaguely that Paul had been forced to give her a bath, which must explain what happened to her clothes, but she was still horribly self-conscious about the idea of his seeing her naked, especially under such conditions, when she’d been so sick and so entirely helpless.

She pushed the self-consciousness aside, however. Peeing was more important. She found her tank, panties, and shorts on the floor near the bed, and she managed to grab them and pull them on.

She swayed a little when she first stood up, but it was from weakness, not from dizziness. After a moment, she was stable enough to walk to the bathroom.

She felt much better after she’d gone, and then she felt even better when she splashed water on her face.

Her hair was a wreck—the two ponytails were lopsided and half undone with tangles lining the sides of her face.

She pulled out the elastics and brushed her hair, and it felt incredibly good. She pulled it back into little low ponytails again, since her hair was kinked in horrible ways from water and perspiration.

Feeling almost revived, she started to leave the bathroom. Gave a gasp of shock when she collided with Paul.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, taking her shoulders gently in his hands to stabilize her.

She managed to smile at him. “Yeah. I’m better.”

Something tense in his expression relaxed in a rush of relief, and the sight of that relief touched Emily deeply.

So deeply she raised a hand to her chest, since it hurt so much.

“What day is it?” she asked, to distract herself and because she really wanted to know.

“It’s just early Monday morning. You were sick for about twenty hours. You really feel all right now?” He put a hand on her forehead to check.

She couldn’t begrudge the gesture. She couldn’t resent it like she normally did. And she returned his smile when he realized she was no longer feverish.

“I know it’s a bad time,” she said, “but I’m about to starve to death.”

He gave a huff of amusement and put an arm around her waist to help her back to the bed. She didn’t need his support, but she didn’t pull away. “Get back in bed, and I’ll go find you something. I actually haven’t had much to eat either.”

She wondered if he'd had anything to eat at all.

She crawled back into bed, and lying down actually felt really good. So did the soup, evidently warmed up in the microwave, and the sandwich Paul brought into the room for her.

He ate in his chair, and she ate propped on her bed. They didn’t talk much, but Emily enjoyed it.

As Paul was collecting the dishes, Emily said, “Now I’m going back to sleep. Please go take a shower and get some sleep yourself. You look terrible.”

He did look terrible. He was pale, his hair stuck out in all directions, and there were shadows under his eyes. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, and he smelled like he could really use a shower.

He promised he would, and he reached over one more time to feel her forehead.

“I’m really fine now, Paul. Thanks….” Her voice cracked on the word. She was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and mortification both.

She hated to be helpless. And she particularly hated that it was Paul who had witnessed her so helpless.

But he must have been with her the whole time, trying so hard to take care of her.

“Thank you so much,” she managed to say, taking a breath and babbling a little from her weakness and self-consciousness. “I really appreciate all you did for me. I never expected it. I mean, it wasn’t something I would have thought of as your responsibility. I knew, when I got sicker, that I would need a nurse or something. But I never expected that you would do all of it yourself. So it means a lot. I mean, I didn’t know you would be…be here the whole time.”

She finally broke herself off, realizing with a flush of heat what an absolute ditz she’d sounded. Maybe she could blame it on the fever.

Paul had just been watching her quietly. She couldn’t really read his expression. Before he turned to leave the room, he said, “Where else would I be?”

SIX

Paul woke up hard.

It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. He hadn’t had sex in a while, and his body didn’t appreciate the deprivation. He almost always woke up hard, but it was easy enough to just take care of it in the shower.

This morning was different, though. He didn’t wake up with the familiar dull ache in his groin.

He woke on the verge of climax.

He might have been dreaming, although no details of any erotic dream lingered as awareness slowly broke through the dark cloud of his mind. He wasn’t conscious of anything except the deep throbbing of arousal and the intense urgency of his need for release.

Still half-asleep, he realized his hips were already working in shallow pumps, trying instinctively to hump the mattress, and the only thing that seemed to matter was that he get some sort of relief for that raw, desperate, pulsing ache.

Without conscious volition, he slid his hand down and squeezed around his erection. He heard a soft groan that must have come from him as the pressure of his hand eased some of the painful tension. Still not fully awake, he squeezed rhythmically and rocked his hips, knowing exactly what his body needed.

In less than ten seconds, he came with another guttural sound.

He gasped a few times against the pillow as his body relaxed, having gotten what it demanded. Only then did he come to full consciousness.

He’d just jerked off in bed under the covers, coming all over his pants like a horny teenager.

Faintly disgusted with himself, Paul reached over and grabbed a couple of tissues to clean himself up. The bedside clock said it was 9:53, and he had no idea why he’d slept so late into the morning.

At least he hadn’t been dreaming about Emily or masturbating to mental images of her. That would have been truly appalling.

Emily.

All of the softening of his body from his climax clenched up again in a flare of panic. Emily. She’d been so sick yesterday. Desperately sick. And she might still need him now.

While he’d been sleeping unforgivably late and indulging in an adolescent grope session.

Acting on instinct, he jumped out of bed and hurried out of his room, quickly striding over to Emily’s bedroom.

Her door was open, and he stood staring blankly into her empty bedroom. Her bed was unmade, and everything else looked the way it had last night when he’d left her.

“Paul?” he heard a familiar voice call out from the other side of the suite. “Are you looking for me?”

He followed the voice and found Emily in the kitchen. She wore sweats and a loose t-shirt, and her hair was damp and pulled back at her neck. She was stirring some sort of batter in a large bowl.

She grinned at him as he stood like a moron in the entrance to the kitchen. “Hi! Did you catch up on your sleep?”

“Are you all right?” he asked, searching her face for signs of fever or pain. She looked so much better than she had yesterday, without the clammy whiteness of her skin and the agonizing pain in her eyes.

“Yeah, I feel great! I slept late too. I just woke up a little while ago, actually. It’s so nice to feel better that I thought I’d make you pancakes. I called down and they brought me everything I needed.”

Paul blinked. “You’re making me pancakes?”

“Well,” she explained, lowering her eyes, “I was going to have some too.”

It hurt Paul, even now, to think about how she’d suffered yesterday. And yet she was standing here this morning and telling him that she was doing something nice for him. He stared at her speechlessly.

“You don’t have to eat them, if you don’t want. I can't claim to be the best chef in the world.” She stirred her batter busily and wasn’t looking in his direction.

“Thank you,” he managed to say.

It must have been the right thing to say because she turned back to him with a glowing smile.

She’d suffered so much yesterday, and she had to know that her next two months would be filled with even more suffering, even worse suffering.

He had no idea how she was capable of smiling like that today.

Then he noticed that her eyes shifted down from his face. Her gaze lingered briefly on his chest before it slanted down to his bare feet and then up again.

Suddenly, Paul was washed with a wave of hot self-consciousness. What if she could somehow tell what he’d just been doing in bed?

And he was still wearing nothing but pajama pants.

“I’m going to put something else on,” he mumbled, “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t you dare take the time to get all the way dressed,” she called after him. “Pancakes will be ready in five minutes!”

Paul took a one-minute shower to rid himself of the lingering feeling of having just come.  Then he pulled on clean clothes—a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

He felt weirdly disoriented when he tried to think about the previous day. The whole experience loomed at the edges of his consciousness like a dark, agonizing void. Something lurched with panic inside him when he tried to pinpoint any specific memories or feelings.

Twenty hours of worry, fear, discomfort, and helpless attempts to make Emily better blurred over into one gaping hole that threatened to swallow him up.

So he forced it into a back corner of his mind—the same corner where he hid all thoughts about his father—so he could return to the kitchen where Emily was waiting for him.

The only positive thing to come from yesterday’s experience was that Paul’s wretchedly inappropriate sexual feelings about Emily—which had been spiraling far out of control in the previous days—had evidently been snuffed out completely.

Paul’s thoughts of Emily had been so far from sexual yesterday that he didn’t think the two could possibly exist simultaneously in his mind.  She’d been so small and so sick and so completely helpless. Even when he’d taken her clothes off and carried her writhing and naked to the tub, nothing remotely sexual had even crossed his mind. And now, the vague memory of doing that hurt him, but the visual of her naked body in such a context didn’t arouse him even in the smallest way.

He looked at her as he walked into the kitchen and carefully assessed his body’s reaction. She looked young with her baggy clothes and damp hair as she puttered at the stove with her pancakes. He couldn't help but think about her yesterday and didn’t feel even the faintest stirrings of physical interest.

It was such a relief that he released a thick sigh. He was going to take care of Emily—he cared about her a lot now and she was his responsibility. But it would be so much easier to do so if he could keep remembering her helplessness and her vulnerability rather than be bombarded with guilty, erotic thoughts that should always be forbidden.

“Sit down,” she instructed, frowning at him when he just stood in the middle of the kitchen. “The pancakes are ready.”

Paul sat down at the kitchen table, automatically obeying her instructions. She put a plate of three slightly lopsided pancakes in front of him and then gave him the butter, syrup, and utensils.

“What about yours?” he asked, when she didn’t put a plate down for herself.

“Mine are coming, but you have to eat yours now or they’ll be cold.” She poured him a cup of coffee, which he’d somehow forgotten about getting. Then she gave him a glass of orange juice too. When he just looked at her blankly, she frowned indignantly. “Eat!”

Paul ate.

“You’re really feeling all right?” he asked, as he quickly buttered his pancakes.

Emily was standing over the skillet again, waiting for her pancakes to brown. “Yes. I woke up with all this energy—although it’s probably just because it’s so nice not to have a fever. I’m already getting kind of tired now, so I’m sure I’ll crash eventually.”

He nodded, taking his first bite of pancakes. “You should try to rest a lot today. These are really good!” The pancakes were good and—despite the meal he’d had in the middle of the night—Paul was absolutely ravenous.

Emily flushed with pleasure as she flipped the pancakes on the skillet. “Thank you,” she told him. “And how are you feeling this morning?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

“Are you sure? I know you stayed up the whole time with me. You’ve got to be exhausted.”

He did feel kind of exhausted, even after sleeping so late. He just shrugged, though. “I slept well. If you rest today, do you think you’ll be up to traveling tomorrow? I can reschedule our trip for tomorrow if—”

“Yes!” Emily burst in, grinning at him. She was piling pancakes into a plate, but he could see the excitement vibrating off her. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much!”

“Of course.”

He watched as she brought the stack of four pancakes over to the table. His were almost gone now, but she put two of the fresh ones into his plate and took the remaining two over to her place at the table.

He let her use the butter first before he slathered some on his new pancakes. He’d taken a big bite when Emily’s voice broke into his eating.

“Paul, I really need to thank you for everything you did yesterday.”

Paul felt awkward, as he always did when she tried to thank him so earnestly, and he tried to shrug it away.

“I mean it,” she persisted, trying to catch his eyes. “I want to say this. I was out of it for most of yesterday, but I know what it must have been like for you, what you had to do to take care of me. I know I didn't act grateful yesterday, but I am. It means so much to me that you did that.”

Paul’s chest felt very uncomfortable from both the tone and the sentiment of this conversation, so he stuffed another bite of pancake into his mouth and didn’t meet her eyes.

“But I have to say that I don’t think you should have to do that again.”

He had to swallow before he opened his mouth to object, so Emily had time to talk over him.

“I’m serious, Paul. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you did. But I don’t want you to have to do all that. It’s not your job. You shouldn’t have to do it.”

“I’ve told you before,” he muttered. “You’re my responsibility.”

“I know that. I know you’re serious about that. It means so much to me. But you can fulfill that responsibility, you can make sure I’m taken care of, without doing it all yourself. I really want…I would like for you to hire a nurse for next time. It’s just going to get worse. You can’t do it all yourself. I don’t want you to. It will be so much easier with a nurse.”

Paul stared at her, his immediate reaction one of irrational possessiveness, an inexplicable resentment at the thought of someone else, a stranger, caring for Emily when she was so sick and vulnerable. She was his wife. She was his to take care of. It was his job.

But he could feel that dark, gaping hole of yesterday still looming at the back of his mind, waiting to swallow him up. A few specific memories pierced through the fog of helplessness and anxiety.

She’d been tossing frantically on her bed, crying brokenly to him for help. He hadn’t been able to help her.

She’d been delirious, screaming at him for lying to her, abandoning her, letting her aunt die. She’d been beating at him with her fists. He’d been desperate, absolutely desperate, with no idea what to do.

She'd been naked and writhing as he tried to get her into the bathtub without her drowning or knocking herself unconscious on the side of the tub.

She'd tossed in the bed, in horrible pain, for hour after hour after hour. And all he could do was sit and watch her.

The idea of living through that again was so awful it almost pulled him down into that dark, gaping hole.

Emily was offering him an escape, though. A way out.

He could still take care of her, fulfill his responsibilities, but not live through that again.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, that weird flash of possessiveness rearing up once more.

“Please, Paul.” Emily’s voice held an almost desperate plea. “Tell me you’ll have a nurse ready for next time. I never would have done this to you if I thought you’d have to do…do all that.”

“Okay,” Paul agreed, letting himself grasp at the only way out of the gaping hole that threatened to claim him. “If that’s what you want, I’ll get a nurse.” A clench in his gut and his chest that he hadn’t been consciously aware of relaxed as he made the decision.

This would be better. So much safer. He could get the best nurse money could buy to take care of Emily when she was sick. He wouldn’t have to see her suffer like that. He wouldn’t have to watch helplessly and grope blindly for some way to make her feel better.

She would still be taken care of, but it wouldn’t have to hurt him so much.

With that, and with the relief from the snuffing of those guilty sexual thoughts about someone who was off-limits to him in every way, Paul thought he could make it through this marriage without being completely torn apart.

* * *

Paul told Emily he was going into his room to make some calls about rescheduling their trip to Egypt.

He did call the administrative assistant who worked for him and asked her to make all of the arrangements, using the itinerary he’d originally set up but changing it for them to fly out tomorrow instead of Sunday.

Then he called someone else.

He was told he was being foolish. He was told his request was impossible. He was told there was absolutely nothing that could be done in three months.

Paul understood the nature of medical research. There were no quick fixes. Effective drugs took years and years to develop. But it was possible they wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

The doctors and the FBI hadn’t been able to find any evidence, but he wasn’t convinced this virus was accidental or random. If his father was somehow involved, then the doctors wouldn’t have to start from square one for a cure.

There might already be one in existence.

When he hung up, he called up his lawyer and got a referral to one of the best private investigation firms in the Philadelphia area. Then he made a couple more calls until he was able to talk to the person he wanted.

Someone needed to get into his father’s research facility and find out whether biological weapons were part of the research there, and Paul himself obviously couldn’t do it.

He wasn’t going to tell Emily. She’d told him flat out that she didn’t want to go on a futile search for a cure or try any experimental treatments that almost certainly wouldn’t work.

But it seemed ludicrous not to try at all, so Paul got the private investigator on the case.

He left his room and heard the television on in the parlor, so he wandered over to find her. He didn’t see her until he came around the sofa that was facing the fireplace and plasma television.

She was sound asleep, curled up on the sofa.  It wasn’t even noon, but she must have crashed, exhausted after her ordeal the day before.

She was his wife. She wasn’t even eighteen yet, and she had no one but him to help her.

She was huddled up tightly, and he thought maybe she was cold, so he went to get a soft, knit throw from a chair. He draped it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She clutched at the throw instinctively in her sleep, nestling into it.

Paul gazed down at her, carefully assessing his reactions. He was once again relieved when he wasn’t taunted by any wayward thoughts regarding her. Hopefully, he was past that now and could concentrate on what was more important.

Emily trusted him. She was depending on him for help. She didn’t have anyone else.

There wasn’t much of a chance, but a slim chance was better than nothing.

Maybe he could save her.

Maybe she didn’t have to die.

* * *

Something was wrong with their suite.

They’d arrived in Cairo late in the day and had been taken by hired car to their hotel. Then the private concierge had shown them up to their rooms.

Emily was ecstatic—on an exhausted high from the long flight and the excitement of finally being in Egypt. She was transparently thrilled by the gorgeous suite, which somehow managed to look exotic, historic, and luxurious all at once.

She’d made a circle of the main sitting area, almost clapping her hands with delight over the antique furniture, chandelier, and rich fabrics. Then she had seen the French doors that led out to the large terrace and had given a squeal as she’d stepped out and gazed at the view from their vantage point on the highest floor of the hotel.

Beyond a lovely stretch of green trees and foliage of the city’s botanical gardens, they could see the sun setting behind the Great Pyramids in the distance.

The concierge smiled paternally at Emily’s pleasure. “This suite has perhaps the best views in the entire city.” He spoke in beautifully articulated British English.

It was true. Paul couldn’t deny it. The long-suppressed romantic part of his nature thrilled at the gorgeous view and the millennia-long history it evoked.

Bu he knew there was something wrong with this suite.

All of the furniture was elegant, built from dark, polished woods and upholstered in sumptuous fabrics. The hardwood floors gleamed, and the art was tasteful and soothing. The four-poster bed in the adjoining room was huge, with silk bedding and a gauzy canopy.

He walked into the bedroom and saw it had the same incredible view of the Pyramids. The connecting bathroom had a marble walk-in shower and a huge claw-foot soaking tub.

Paul returned to the sitting area, where the concierge was waiting patiently for Paul’s approval.

But Paul didn’t approve. There were no more doors off the sitting area.

This suite only had one bedroom. Only one bed.

“Paul, come look!” Emily called out. “It’s amazing!”

“Just a minute.”

He walked over to the concierge. “This isn’t the suite I’d originally requested, is it?”

The concierge’s brows drew together in concern. “No, Mr. Marino. This is the honeymoon suite. When you had to reschedule your reservations, the suite you’d requested was no longer available. But I told your assistant that this suite was equally spacious and had an even better view, and she said since you and your wife are newly married it should work perfectly. Is it not to your liking, sir?”

Paul felt tense and wasn’t sure what to say. He murmured to the concierge that he needed to speak with his wife for a moment, and then he went to join Emily on the balcony.

“Isn’t it perfect?” Emily gushed, turning to look at Paul. “I can’t believe I’m really here. And we get to look at this for three days!” She stretched out her arms toward the lush view as if she wanted to embrace it.

Paul’s heart was beating faster with pressing tension. Emily had suffered so much in the last few months. She'd suffered so much two days ago. And this suite, this view, was making her happy.

He hated to disappoint her, but something would have to be done.

“I’m sorry, Emily,” he said in a low voice, so the concierge inside wouldn’t overhear. “We may need to change rooms.”

“No!” Emily cried, her face twisting in disappointment. “Why? This is perfect. This is the suite I want.”

“I know. I know you like it. But you need to know something.” He cleared his throat. “There was a mix-up when our reservations were changed, and they gave us a suite with only one bedroom.”

Emily blinked, taking a minute to process what he said. “Oh.”

“So, you see, we might need to move. We can stay here if you want, but we’ll have to somehow make do with one room.”

“Oh.”

Paul waited.

Emily looked back at the pink, orange, and violet sunset behind the peaks of the Pyramids. “Will the new suite have this same view?”

“No. I’m sorry. We may, in fact, have to have two separate rooms.” He didn’t like that idea at all. He didn’t like not being around if Emily needed him, but she had to choose what would make her most comfortable. “So, we can stay here with only one bedroom, or we could move to different rooms.”

“Let’s just stay,” she concluded. She’d been staring out at the view, but now she slanted him an ironic look. “We’re married, after all. I’m sure we can manage. I just couldn’t bear to give this up.”

Paul murmured an acknowledgement of her decision. Noticed she had a little smile on her face and assumed she was taking pleasure in the view again. Then went to tip the relieved concierge and tell him the suite was excellent.

As the bellhops carried their luggage into the bedroom, Paul stood watching.

It would probably be all right. He and Emily got along fine, even in close quarters. The bed was huge. And fortunately all of those inappropriate thoughts he’d been entertaining had been snuffed out by the sight of Emily’s helpless suffering.

Sharing the room would be no problem.

The bedroom looked like it belonged in a honeymoon suite. It wasn’t tasteless or crass, of course. Like the rest of the suite, it was lovely and elegant, but the bedding was lush and sensual. There was a huge vase of red roses and orchids on the table and a silver bucket holding chilled champagne and two crystal flutes beside the flowers.

Quite against his will, Paul’s mind flashed to the image of Emily—looking like a wet dream in that new dress that left nothing to the imagination, with tousled hair, sophisticated makeup, and bare legs above her high heels. The sight of her so sexy that evening in New York had been like a hard kick in his gut.

Other parts of his body had reacted too.

Then he thought about her a few nights ago in the kitchen, when she’d woken him up in the middle of the night. She’d been wearing what looked to him like underwear, although maybe they were supposed to be shorts.

Whatever they were, they’d displayed more of her luscious ass than he could handle. Then she’d stroked the scars on his back. There was something about her deep sympathy and tenderness that he’d wanted, he’d needed. But his body had infuriatingly misinterpreted the stimulus and had leapt into eager arousal. He’d been achingly hard, from just a few brushes of her fingers on his back and the knowledge of how little she'd been wearing. He’d panicked when he realized that his pajama pants wouldn’t hide anything.

He’d used the refrigerator door as some sort of barrier, and he didn’t think she’d noticed his response.

Paul took a deep breath. He was over that now. He wasn’t going to react that way to her again. She was sick and only seventeen years old.

For thirteen more days.

He stared at the big bed, the only bed in the suite. He imagined Emily climbing into it with him tonight, wearing next to nothing. He imagined rolling over and feeling her lush curves pressed against him in the dark. He imagined her hands on his skin, stroking him, caressing him. He imagined her looking at him the way she was looking at the view, with the same uninhibited passion.

His body clenched with the kind of deeply physical interest that was supposed to have been snuffed out. He felt a familiar tightening in his groin.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe he would just sleep on the couch.

***

Paul was propped up on the bed with his laptop in his lap. He was pretending to work, but he was mostly just waiting for Emily to come out of the bathroom.

He’d suggested he sleep on the sofa in the sitting room, but Emily had been astonished and appalled by the idea because the antique sofa was too short for his height. He’d had to drop the subject completely when she started to make noises about sleeping on the couch herself, if Paul was so uncomfortable about sharing the bed with her.

After a delicious dinner from room service on the terrace, Emily declared herself exhausted. She was going to take a bath and go to bed.

He’d tried to busy himself in the sitting room, thinking it might be easier to come to bed much later than Emily, when she would hopefully already be asleep. However, she’d apparently found his procrastination strange and asked again if she should just sleep on the couch.

Paul was not about to let Emily sleep on anything except a bed, so he’d told her he was coming into the bedroom momentarily.

She’d been in the bathroom for twenty-five minutes now, evidently enjoying a leisurely bath, and Paul was having a very hard time not imagining what she looked like, naked and sensual, relaxing in hot, fragrant bubbles.

When he heard her moving around behind the closed door of the bathroom, he knew she’d gotten out of the tub. He felt his heartbeat speed up a little, and his skin broke out in a faint sweat. He tried to force down the reaction. His body was responding as though he were about to have sex as soon as Emily got into bed with him, when he knew very well that wasn’t going to happen.

He stared fixedly at his laptop as the bathroom door opened and the spicy, pleasant scent of ginger and vanilla wafted over to him.

“Do you always work in bed?” Emily asked, stopping in the middle of the room to look at him.

At the sound of her voice, he couldn’t help but shift his gaze over to where she stood. His body tightened with interest as soon as he saw her.

He’d been hoping she would be a little self-conscious about sharing the bed and would thus choose one of her less revealing sleep outfits. No such luck. She looked lovely and utterly tempting in a little tank-and-short set in a smoky purple satin. There was nothing overtly sexy about the simple cut of the top or shorts—he knew she wasn’t trying to turn him on. But the color highlighted her fair skin and her shiny, tousled hair. The soft fabric looked like it wanted to be touched and clung to the curve of her breasts. One thin strap was slipping down her shoulder, and the slight flare of the shorts emphasized her hips.

“Do you?” she prompted, since he hadn’t answered her earlier question. She lowered her eyes.

Paul tore his hot gaze away from her, reminding himself with ruthless determination that she was seventeen, she was sick, and she wasn’t for him. “Sometimes,” he said, finally answering her question. “But I was just going through some email until you were finished in the bathroom.”

“Oh,” she said, slanting him a shy little look that was irresistible, tantalizing.

He cleared his throat and was glad the laptop covered his groin. His body had leapt to attention in every way. “I need to shower after the flight too.”

“Oh,” she said again, this time with a different resonance.  “I’m sorry. I should have let you use the bathroom first, since I took so long with my bath. Was I too slow?”

“No, no. You weren’t slow at all. This worked out well. I wanted to clear out my email anyway.”

Emily had walked over to her side of the bed and turned down the covers. “I’m going to get a bottle of water,” she said, “Did you want one too?”

“Sure.”

She padded out of the bedroom to get the bottles of water from the refrigerator in the kitchen, and Paul took that opportunity to set down his laptop and get into the bathroom before Emily could notice his physical condition.

The bathroom smelled like Emily—strongly like ginger and vanilla from her bath but also a faint whiff of the herbal scent of her shampoo and the mint of her toothpaste.

He turned the shower on hot and stifled a groan as he stepped under the spray. The smell of Emily just intensified his arousal, as did the sight of her little pink robe hanging from a hook on the door.

With the water beating down on him, he wrapped his hand around his erection and pumped quickly, bracing himself with his other hand against the shower wall.

He tried not to visualize Emily, but he couldn’t seem to help it. He saw the tumble of her hair around her face, the lush curves of her small body, that irresistible expression in her blue eyes. He came, biting his lip to make sure he didn’t make any noise.

He grabbed the soap and lathered himself up, thinking about Emily waiting out in the bedroom for him, under the covers. He hadn't yet softened all the way and was hard again by the time he’d rinsed off.

Absolutely disgusted with his body, which hadn’t been this out of control since he’d been a teenager, he brought himself to another fast climax, this one relaxing him more completely.

He felt better when he finally turned off the shower. He thought he might actually be able to make it through the night without doing something unforgivably stupid.

Emily had turned off all of the lights in the room except for the lamp on his side of the bed. He’d been hoping she would be asleep or mostly asleep when he came in, but her eyes were opened and she watched him as he walked over and got into bed.

She smiled, and he couldn’t help but smile back. Fortunately, his body seemed to be satisfied for the moment. It didn’t do anything untoward, despite the fact that he was wrapped up in her fragrance again as soon as he slid into bed.

“Are you tired?” Emily asked, when he reached over to turn off the light.

“Yeah. It’s been a long day. I’m sure you must be exhausted, since you’re still recovering from the fever.”

He couldn’t see Emily’s expression very well in the dark, but there was a strange resonance to the silence in the long pause that followed his words. She sounded almost disappointed when she murmured, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

He wished he hadn’t brought up her being sick. She’d been having a good day, enjoying finally being in Egypt, and he’d brought her down by reminding her of depressing reality. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “You can sleep in tomorrow if you want. It’s usually more comfortable to go out early in the day, but there’s really no rush. I can reschedule our—”

“Oh, no. I’m sure I’ll be ready to get going early. I’m exciting about seeing everything.”  She paused. “Do you snore or anything?”

He gave a huff of amusement. “I don’t think so. No one has told me I do, anyway.”

“Well, they might not tell you.” Emily’s voice was light and ironic, as if she were feeling less self-conscious. “I’m sure all of your bed-partners were secretly dreaming of being Mrs. Paul Marino and didn’t want to sully the experience for you with the unpleasantness of snoring. But, since I’m already Mrs. Paul Marino, I’ll definitely tell you if you snore.”

He smiled in the dark, although hearing Emily declare herself Mrs. Paul Marino, when they were lying in the same bed, did something odd to his chest. “I'll appreciate the honesty.”

“No, you won’t. You’d get all bristly if I were to tell you that you snore.” He started to object, but she must have predicted it and continued, “Don’t try to deny it. I know you too well. You would definitely get bristly. Not that it would stop me from telling you.”

“Never doubted it.”

Emily made the mattress shift as she turned on her side so she faced him. “You can tell me if I snore too.”

“I’m sure you don’t snore,” he murmured, smiling again as he turned his head in her direction. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, and he could see her dimly, her eyes wide, her mouth turned up, and her body softly rounded under the blanket.

“What makes you say that? Girls snore too, you know.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Are you discreetly trying to warn me about something?”

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t think I snore. But you shouldn’t make snap judgments based only on a person’s gender. Both men and women can snore equally.”

“Thanks for the insight. I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to be a male chauvinist.”

“I don’t think you’re a male chauvinist, although you do have an incredibly strong chivalrous streak in you that might occasionally be confused with it. But it’s not the same thing.”

He frowned. “I’m not chivalrous.” Even the word made him awkward, conjured up silly, romantic visuals that were not at all in keeping with the experienced, cynical man he took himself to be.

“Of course, you’re chivalrous!” She sounded absolutely astonished by his denial of what she evidently took for an undeniable fact. “What are you talking about?”

He looked up at the ceiling again and frowned deeper, feeling slightly flustered and not sure why.

She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed down at his face. “You’ve never been anything except chivalrous with me,” she murmured, very softly, her voice feeling to him almost like a caress.

He shifted his eyes and met hers in the dark. They gazed at each other for a moment that lasted too long, and Paul felt a tug in his chest that was both thrilling and terrifying. Emily seemed to be caught in the moment with him, and she adjusted a little, bringing her face closer to his.

It was all Paul could do to stop himself from grabbing her and pulling her into a deep kiss. His body wasn’t even reacting at the moment, but he still seemed to want her so much.

He clenched his fist in the bedding and fought the impulse fiercely. He wasn’t going to take advantage of this situation and use Emily as the fix to his horniness.

Desperately groping for a way out of the tense moment, he said, “You better get some sleep, if you want to have energy for seeing all the sights tomorrow.”

Emily let out a whoosh of air, as if she’d deflated. Then she flopped over onto her back, evidently realizing that she really was tired. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I do want to get out early. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Paul relaxed once she was safely on her side of the bed and not so tantalizingly within arm’s reach. He was still conscious of her. She’d rolled over onto her side, and her back was to him. She adjusted the covers several times and rearranged her pillow. He could hear her breathing in the dark.

Eventually, she fell asleep. Not long after, Paul fell asleep too.

* * *

He woke up before five the next morning.

The first thing he was aware of was that he’d slept surprisingly well—he hadn’t woken up all night, which was very unusual.

The next thing he was aware of was the fact that he was very warm and very hard.

And the next thing he was aware of was the feeling of a little radiator pressed into his side.

He blinked down and saw Emily, cuddled up beside him, her cheek pressed against the side of his chest and her arm wrapped around his middle.

She was sound asleep. He should have known she was a cuddler. During the night, she must have rolled onto his side of the bed and nestled into him.

Part of him liked the feeling. She was warm, her body soft and clingy against his. He liked the heat from her body. He liked the weight of her arm on his belly. He liked the way her hand instinctively clutched his side.

But the arm that had ended up wrapped around her during the night was numb from a lack of circulation. And arousal pulsed uncomfortably at his groin, no doubt intensified by Emily’s soft body pressed into his.

So he gently pulled his numb arm from under her weight and eased her back over toward the middle of the bed. Then he rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom to take an early shower.

* * *

Paul wanted to shake Emily, and she wasn’t even in the same room.

He was getting out of the shower, and she was in the bedroom. But he knew—he just knew—that she was still being irrational, stubborn, and infuriating.

She’d taken a shower earlier than evening, before dinner, so she hadn’t needed one before bed.  Paul had showered earlier too, since he’d been hot and sweaty after sightseeing. He hadn’t absolutely needed a shower before bed either. The argument he’d been having with Emily had put a damper on any physical responses prompted by going to bed with her.

But he’d taken a shower anyway and had jerked off with quick efficiency under the spray, since his body didn’t necessarily follow the lead of his mind, and he didn’t want to risk it.

When he came out of the bathroom, Emily was curled up under the covers, facing away from both the bathroom and his side of the bed.

Maybe she’d decided to give him the silent treatment, which would be all right with him.

He sat down on the side of the bed and noticed she’d put a cold bottle of water on his nightstand, despite being angry with him. It touched him, for some reason.

He’d been a fool to let himself be distracted even momentarily by sentiment.

Without turning over, Emily said in a tight, defensive tone, “I’m not being irrational. I’m not being stubborn. I’m telling you that I’m not an invalid. When I don’t have a fever, I feel as good as anyone else, and I don’t appreciate your acting like I’m too sick to do anything normal.”

Paul rolled his eyes and let out an impatient exhale. “And I’ve said at least six times now that I wasn’t treating you like an invalid. It was the hottest part of the afternoon, and even healthy people get sick from the heat.”

“But I wasn’t getting sick. I was having a good time, and I wasn’t ready to go back yet.”

“I know you were having a good time, but we have two more days in Egypt to do everything you want to do. We didn’t have to pack everything into one day, when there was a chance that the heat could prompt a fever.” He turned off the light and got under the covers, lying on his back and looking at her tense shoulders and unyielding spine.

“I wasn’t getting feverish,” she gritted out, her earlier attempt to control her tone obviously failing as she got even angrier with him. “You’re treating me like a child who can’t tell whether she’s sick or not.”

“I’m not saying you were sick then. I’m saying you could have gotten sick. And there was absolutely no reason for you to risk another fever.” He rubbed his jaw in frustration and got tired of looking at the back of her head. “Would you please turn over so I don’t have to talk to your back?”

Emily rolled over, obviously not appreciating his exasperated tone.  His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to tell that she was glaring at him. “I get fevers because I have this virus. I don’t get fevers because I get too hot.”

“But how do you know external conditions can’t trigger a fever? You were hot, Emily. You can tell me all you want that you were fine, but you were getting too hot out there.”

Paul had been hit with a flare of worry that afternoon as he’d noticed Emily’s very flushed face and the dampness of perspiration on the back of her shirt. Since he’d already been tired and annoyed about other things, he hadn’t hesitated to call an end to their tour, digging in his heels despite Emily’s very vocal objections.

“Everyone was hot, and I wasn’t even walking! But you evidently think I’m so delicate that I can’t even get driven around in a Jeep.”

“We can go back tomorrow. You can still see everything.”

“But I liked having Akil as our guide, and he’s not going to be available tomorrow.”

Paul closed his eyes and clenched his jaw for a moment before he replied coldly, “Yes, you’ve told me several times now how much you liked him. But I’m sure our guide tomorrow will be equally knowledgeable.”

Unlike Emily, Paul hadn’t liked the very handsome Egyptian archeology student who had shown them around today. He especially hadn’t liked the way the man’s eyes lingered on Emily’s face and body.

His comment seemed to prompt in her another cause for irritation with him. She snapped, “And, by the way, there was no reason for you to be so rude to the poor guy, after he’d been nothing but nice to us.”

“He’d been nice to you,” Paul corrected, rather gutturally. “And I definitely wasn’t blind to why he was nice to you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I liked him and thought he was smart and funny. I wasn’t flirting with him or anything.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you were flirting,” he said, although he hadn’t been at all happy with the way Emily was grinning and laughing with the obnoxious man. He hadn't for a minute thought she would do anything. It just bothered him to see her enjoying another man the way she sometimes enjoyed him. “I was referring to his obvious interest in you.”

Emily actually snorted. “That’s ridiculous. He knew we’re married. I mean, you were right there glowering at him the whole time. He wasn’t coming on to me. He was just nice.”

“No man has a reason to be that nice to my wife.”

She made a wordless sound of frustration in her throat. “So I’m not allowed to have another man even talk to me?”

“You’re intentionally misunderstanding me. Of course, you can talk to other men. Of course, men can talk to you. What I have a problem with is men making obvious moves on my wife.” He saw her open her mouth to argue. “You might not have realized that’s what he had in mind, but I promise you it was. He didn’t just want to talk to you. He wanted to get you into bed.”

Emily’s lips parted as she stared at him, and for a moment Paul felt a tug of desire. He was still too annoyed for it to develop into a problem, though.

“I don’t think that’s right.” Her anger had faded into slight confusion. “He was being nice.”

“You’re a beautiful woman, Emily. There’s a reason why so many men want to be nice to you.” He’d spoken without thinking, to make a point in the argument. But, after the words were said, he wasn’t sure they should have been.

Finally, she shrugged. “I can’t go around assuming that every man who talks to me wants to jump me. I just can’t believe it’s true, and—even if it was—I couldn’t function that way. If a man gets inappropriate with me, of course I would put a stop to it. But, to tell you the truth, no one has even tried to be inappropriate with me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I’m not the kind of girl that men come on to.”

He swallowed, bristling at the thought of all the blind fools who had made Emily believe herself to be undesirable, even as he was aware that he used to be one of them. “You’ve been around high school boys,” he said matter-of-factly. “And high school boys are stupid most of the time. You can’t judge yourself by what happens in high school. Men will want you, Emily.”

It was too dark to read the expression in her eyes clearly. “Do you think so?”

“Of course.”

She smiled at him, and he smiled back. They seemed to be caught in that intense gaze again, and this time he couldn’t pull out. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t say anything. The only thing he was capable of doing was barely restraining himself from hauling her into a kiss.

If he kissed her now, in their bed, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

After a long moment, Emily broke the spell. “Anyway, I’m still annoyed with you for cutting my day short.”

He rolled his eyes, almost relieved that the tension was broken.  “I’ve told you hundreds of times now that I’m not going to back down about your health.”

“I know you’ve said that, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Evidently tired of arguing, she rolled over, showing him her back again. This time Paul didn’t complain.

He lay in bed and stewed about her stubborn irrationality for a long time.

Then, without warning, Emily said into the darkness of the room, "I'm sorry if I was too stubborn. I know you were just trying to look out for me."

He hesitated, mostly to swallow over his surprise and not because he didn't want to apologize too. He'd never met anyone who had apologized to him so genuinely. Finally, he was able to say, "Thanks. I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have been so bad-tempered, especially about…"

"Akil," Emily finished for him, a smile in her voice. "That's all right. I forgive you."

* * *

Paul woke up just after five o’clock the next day. And, just like the previous morning, his personal space had definitely been invaded.

He was sleeping on his side, with his back in Emily’s direction. But, during the night, she’d pressed herself up behind him in her sleep, spooning him cozily with her arms wrapped around his middle.

He was partly erect but not as hard as yesterday, and he was too groggy to want to pull away. She felt nice pressed up behind him—warm and soft and feminine.

Paul had never had the instinct to cuddle before. With most of the women he’d slept with over the years, he hadn’t even spent the night. When he’d had serious girlfriends, he’d tried to hold them for a while after they’d had sex, but he’d always needed his own space to sleep.

He wasn’t really any different now. He was sure this wasn't any sort of impulse to cuddle. But there was something he liked about the way Emily clung to him in her sleep.

He could feel her damp breath against his bare back. He could feel her loose hair tickling his skin just slightly. He could feel her soft breasts pressed tightly against him, with only a thin layer of cotton between their skin. Her legs were tucked snugly behind his, her small body molding his perfectly. And she was squeezing him lightly with her arms, her hands clutching at his bare belly.

He lay like that for a long time, dozing and enjoying the feel of her against him, but then she started to shift in her sleep, her breasts brushing against him, her pelvis pushing against his ass, her hands fumbling at his abdomen as if they were groping for something to hold onto.

She was still sound asleep, but her breathing had accelerated. He assumed she must be dreaming. The little squirms and gropes she made started to turn him on, his half-erection hardening completely.

He was about to try to slide out of her unconscious embrace when she began to make noises. The sounds were just soft little grunts that sounded like, “Eh.” But her motion behind him changed too. Became a little more rhythmic. And the two in combination were unmistakable.

Emily must be having an erotic dream.

Paul’s arousal intensified as she moved and breathed against him until desire pulsed through his entire body, but he was also confused and disoriented.

He’d never thought about Emily’s having erotic dreams before. He’d never really thought about her having sexual needs and desires of her own. Rationally, of course, he would have known she must have them. He well knew how passionate she was by nature.

But there had always been something pure, untouchable, innocent about her that had disallowed him from thinking of her in those terms.

Paul might desperately want to have sex with Emily, but she would never want to have sex with him. Not just because he wasn’t good enough for her, but because he’d never attributed sexual feelings to her.

But her dreaming self seemed to want his body. A lot. She rolled her pelvis against his butt, squirmed her breasts against his back, and her hands fumbled eagerly at the muscles of his belly. The noises she huffed had almost turned into words. Maybe, “Yeah, yeah, please, yeah,” although they were too slurred to know for sure.

Of course, it was probably just because he was a convenient body. She was asleep and wouldn't know who she was clutching. Emily had never wanted Paul. But the fact that she was having such an intensely erotic dream at all was enlightening, bewildering, and somehow thrilling.

Paul was panting now, holding himself rigidly still. This was wrong. He shouldn’t be letting her do this to him, even in her sleep. He needed to somehow get away without waking her up.

Then her hands fumbled lower on his body. And, before he knew what was happening, they’d found his hard shaft, prominent beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants.

Paul bit his bottom lip so hard he saw white when he felt her hands on him intimately. She was still sleeping—he could feel her hot breathing against his back. Her grip wasn’t tight or controlled, just light, clumsy touches, but it felt so good that Paul could barely keep himself from thrusting into her hands.

He had to end this. He was in danger of coming, just from the fumbling little touches she was giving him.

This was just wrong.

He was terrified that, if he tried to move her, she would wake up. She would discover how hard he was, how much he wanted her. She would realize what she’d been inadvertently doing to him in her sleep. And she’d be so mortified that nothing would be the same between them again.

So he was trapped, on the edge of exquisite agony. Only sure of one thing. If this kept up much longer, he wouldn’t be able to hold back his climax. He would come just from this.

But then Emily hissed out one more sound, and her body seemed to settle in her sleep. She stopped squirming. Her breathing slowed down. Her hands grew still on his erection.

So, very gently, Paul adjusted the arm draped over his side and—as carefully as possible—he slid out of the bed.

Still sleeping, Emily rolled over onto her back, one arm flung above her head. The covers were pushed down to her hips, and her white tank-top was riding up, exposing the fair skin of her belly. Her nipples were peaked, poking out prominently through the cotton. Her cheeks were beautifully flushed.

Paul turned on his heel and strode into the bathroom, turning on the shower immediately and stepping in before it got hot.

He grabbed his erection and started to pump hard and fast. Over the last few days, he hadn’t been able to keep from visualizing Emily as he did this, but he’d always stopped short of fantasizing about her engaging in erotic activities with him. It had always seemed just one step too far for him to tolerate.

But he did now.

He imagined her rubbing herself against him, fondling him, pumping her hips into him, arching and writhing as he brought her pleasure, huffing out his name as she worked up to orgasm.

He came hard and quickly.

Then he stood under the shower spray feeling guilty.

Maybe Emily did have sexual desires. Maybe she was a sexual creature. Maybe he'd been a fool not to acknowledge it before.

She was still only seventeen. She was still sick. Still dying. She was still off-limits to him.

There had always been a bitter irony to his life, but this might have been the sharpest.

Maybe things would change. Naturally they would. But, at this moment, the only woman in the world he wanted was his wife.

And she was the one he could never have.

* * *

Emily had gone into the bedroom to take a nap after they got back to the suite the following afternoon, saying she was tired and he shouldn't disturb her. Paul had been catching up on some work until he’d received a call that changed everything.

Distracted by the news, he’d knocked on the bedroom door and then just walked in to tell her.

She was in bed, lying on her stomach and facing the opposite side of the room. She jerked and gave a little squeak when she heard him. “Hey! What are you doing?” she demanded, rolling over to glare at him. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

Paul blinked. “I did knock.”

“Well, you didn’t wait for a response.”

“Oh. Sorry. What’s the matter?” She usually didn’t make a fuss for no reason, but she seemed really annoyed with him for some reason. She was sleeping on top of the bedcovers, but she had draped a thick throw over her for her nap. She looked like she'd gotten a little tangled in it as she'd rolled over with one arm still under the blanket.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “I was almost asleep and you scared me. What’s going on?”

Paul went over and sat down on Emily’s side of the bed so he could explain, but then he noticed that she looked really flushed and was breathing faster than normal. Without thinking, he reached over and felt her forehead.

She pulled away. “I’m not sick. I was just napping.”

He didn’t listen to her objections. He just got up and went to get the thermometer from the bathroom. She was rolling her eyes when he came back over and held it against her forehead, but she didn’t say anything until he drew his hand back to check her temperature.

“99⁰,” he said, eyeing her closely. He hated the idea of her getting another fever so soon after the last one she had.

“That’s almost normal. It’s probably just slightly up because I was out in the sun earlier today. I think I might have gotten a little sunburn. Would you stop fussing and tell me what’s going on?”

He hoped she was right, and he needed to tell her anyway. “I just got a call from Hathaway, the U.S. attorney—you remember him? They’ve been able to move the trial date up.”

Emily’s eyes widened. “Oh. That’s good, right?”

“I think so. It will be better for you, for sure, and I’d like to have it done with too.”

“When is it scheduled for?” she asked, evidently having forgotten her annoyance with him the minute before.

“That’s the problem. It’s starts on Monday.”

“So soon?”

“And they want to have the weekend to finish working on our testimony, so they’ve asked for us to fly back tomorrow. Will it be all right to leave a day early?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it? I’m glad the trial is going to be over so soon.”

“I know there was more you wanted to see here,” Paul said, searching for signs of disappointment in her expression.

She curled her lip at him. “Do you really think I’m selfish or childish enough to pout and whine about something like that? I’ve had a great time here, but all I really needed to do was see the Pyramids. And I’ve done that. We definitely need to go back. The trial is more important.”

“Thanks.” He reached over again to feel her forehead, although she was already looking less flushed and her breathing was normal now.

She didn’t seem to be getting sick. It was probably just because he’d woken her up.

* * *

Paul dreamed that night—a recurring nightmare he’d had for years, each version taking slightly different form although the feelings of desperation, betrayal, and dread were always the same.

He would try to catch his father, but his father was forever out of his reach.

That night, Paul was chasing Vincent Marino through a desert, past pyramids and ancient cities. He would almost reach him, almost touch him, but then his father would slip out of his grip. Then he’d see him again in the distance, the hot wind blowing his gray hair and a taunting smile on his face.

Paul would run some more, falling on the hot sand, burning his hands, scrambling up to run again until his shoes melted and his bare feet got torn to bits.

Again and again it would repeat—almost catching him only to have him slip away. And every time it hurt so much, ripped him to shreds.

There never seemed to be an end.

He’d fallen again in his nightmare, and thorny branches had come up out of the sand to hold him imprisoned, ripping jagged gashes into his skin, impossible to break free from, no matter how much he struggled.

“Paul,” the thorny branches said to him, “Paul, Paul, wake up!” The branches were shaking him, so he fought their grip.

“Paul! Wake up! You’re dreaming. Paul, stop!”

He was jarred awake as he struggled, and one of his arms flailed out and connected with something soft.

He heard a breathless gasp. Then realized the gasp had been from Emily, who was on her knees on the bed, with her hands on his shoulders.

She must have been the one shaking him.

And he must have just punched her in the gut.

“Fuck,” he panted, disoriented from the dream. He was drenched in sweat, and his heart still pounded painfully. “I’m so sorry. I was dreaming. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, staring down at him in the dark of their bedroom. “You didn’t hurt me. Maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up, but it…it sounded so terrible.”

Paul tried to suck in air, tried to shake off that horrible dream. “What was I doing?”

“At first, just talking, calling out to someone to wait, to slow down. But then you started to sound so upset. I didn’t want you to keep having such a nightmare. You didn’t start to flail around until I was trying to wake you up.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have been mortified at Emily’s seeing him helpless, even just helpless in the grips of a nightmare. But Paul was still shaking from the dream, and he was so glad not to have woken up alone.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly. She was still kneeling beside him on the bed, but she’d moved her hands to her lap.

He nodded. “Yes. Thank you for waking me up.”

She paused for a few seconds, gazing down at him with a softness he could sense even in the dark. “Was it your father you were trying to catch?”

Paul swallowed hard. He wasn’t going to answer. He didn’t share this kind of thing. With anyone.

He heard himself mumbling, “I can’t reach him. Ever.”

Emily made a hoarse sound of emotion and reached down to hug him tightly. He hugged her back, needing her, needing something.

She hugged him for a long time, and then she didn’t really pull away. She just adjusted so she was nestled against his side, with her cheek against the side of his chest and her arm wrapped around his belly—the way she’d done unconsciously in her sleep on that first night.

Paul draped an arm around her and held her against him. He knew he shouldn’t. He should pull away. And, if she’d said anything, if she’d asked him any more questions, he would have.

She didn’t speak again, though. Just held him until she fell asleep and kept clinging to him even in her sleep.

Paul didn’t fall asleep again for a long time, but he took a kind of comfort from Emily’s warm presence that he hadn’t experienced since he was a child.

He knew his role in this marriage. He was supposed to take care of Emily.

But that night it felt like she was taking care of him.

SEVEN

Emily woke up slowly, painfully.

The sensations of heat and discomfort were the first things to break through the dark blur of sleep. Then she was aware of a voice saying, “Emily. I’m sorry. Let me get you to bed and you can go to sleep again.”

She knew the voice, of course, but she was too groggy and disoriented to figure out where she was, when it was, and why the voice was talking to her. She felt so hot that her mind jumped to Egypt, and she wondered if she’d somehow fallen asleep next to a pyramid.

“Huh?” she managed to grunt, struggling to open her eyes. Her head ached. Her body ached. Even her eyes ached as she tried to pry them open.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said again. “I just need to get you to bed.”

His fuzzy face gradually sharpened into focus. He was leaning over her. Wearing a suit. Had a gentle look in his eyes.

Finally, Emily remembered where she was. They were back in the apartment in Philadelphia, and Vincent Marino’s trial started this morning.

Jittery nerves had gotten her up early, so she’d showered and dressed in one of the new suits for the trial Paul had convinced her to buy yesterday. She’d had a headache so she’d drunk several cups of coffee and made herself eat a decent breakfast, but she’d still been ready to leave early, so she’d sat down on the couch to watch the news. She must have fallen asleep.

“No, I’m not going to bed,” she mumbled, trying to process what Paul had just said. “I’m going to court with you.”

“You can’t.” Paul helped her sit up. “You’re sick.”

She’d had that headache this morning, but she was sure she hadn’t had a fever. Now, however, even the change in positions made her head whirl, and she was so hot she breathed in little pants. She rubbed her eyes and tried to make herself focus. “I don’t think I’m sick.”

“Your fever must have spiked really fast,” he explained, taking her arm and pulling her up to her feet. “You seemed all right earlier, but I just took your temperature. It’s already almost 102⁰.”

“It is?” she asked, still feeling fuzzy and bewildered, even as she walked slowly with Paul toward her bedroom. “It can’t be. I can’t be sick again so soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul repeated, his voice very mild. “I’ve called the nurse, and she’ll be here soon.”

“You’ll be late.” Hit with a wave of hot dizziness, Emily stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and clung to the lapels of Paul’s suit jacket while she tried to breathe deeply.

Paul wrapped an arm around her for support. “I’ve got time. I need to get you to bed, and then I’ll wait for the nurse to get here.”

When the dizziness faded some, she leaned on him until she’d reached her bed, where she sat down with a sigh of relief. She allowed him to help her take off the jacket of her dark blue suit and then slip off her shoes and jewelry.

“Wait,” she said, after a minute, as she finally realized what was happening, “I need to go to court with you.”

Paul had gone over to the dresser and was pulling a tank-top and pair of cotton boxer shorts from a drawer. He glanced back at her as he replied, “It’s just jury selection today and maybe opening statements if they choose the jury quickly enough. It’s nothing you need to be there for.”

“I need to be there with you,” she said, blinking at him groggily and wishing her head didn’t ache so much. “You can’t go by yourself.”

Paul returned to stand beside her. “You need to rest—not worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

He reached down to unbutton her top, since Emily hadn’t gotten any farther with her undressing. Relieved to get the hot, confining clothes off, she tugged her top off and unhooked her bra. She automatically held an arm in front of her bare breasts, even though Paul was looking away as he silently offered her the tank-top.

She experienced another wave of heat and was glad to be in cooler clothes. The feverish sensations were familiar, though, and they caused her stomach to twist unpleasantly. “Shit, I don’t want to do this again.” She slid her skirt down her legs.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

After she’d put on the shorts he’d found in the drawer, Emily started pulling out the pins that were holding her hair up, setting them down on the nightstand. Paul went into her bathroom, and she didn’t know why until he returned with two elastic bands for her hair.

She finger-combed her hair into two loose ponytails, which had been the only hairstyle that hadn’t driven her crazy during her last bout of fever. Then she lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up, a knot of dread in her gut.

She knew what to expect this time, and the knowledge of how miserable she would feel for the next twenty-four hours terrified her.

Paul brought her some Advil and a fresh bottle of water. After she’d swallowed the pills, he stood next to the bed and looked down at her.

He was cool and handsome with his black suit and tie. His dark hair and gray eyes were distinct and striking. His expression was controlled and unrevealing.

But as Emily looked up at him, she thought for some reason he looked really young. Almost lonely.

“I should be with you today,” she whispered, even though she knew she wasn’t physically capable of it.

Paul gave her a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Try to rest.”

Emily closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. For the last several days she’d felt almost normal, seeing Egypt, laughing and arguing with Paul, dealing with the frustration of growing more and more attracted to him with no outlet for that attraction.

But now she was sick again, and Paul had that gentle look in his eyes again—treating her like an invalid instead of a regular woman.

Plus, Emily had endless hours of pain and suffering to look forward to, instead of being with her husband at a time when he would really need her support.

There was nothing she could do about it, though. She felt absolutely miserable, so she tried to do as he’d suggested and rest.

* * *

The morning wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Paul had gone through an agency to find professional nurses to care for her, and he’d picked out one to watch her during the days and another one during the nights when she was sick. They’d met and interviewed both of them the afternoon before they’d left for Egypt, and Emily could already tell they’d chosen well.

Amy, her day nurse, was a plain woman in her mid-thirties. She was professional and matter-of-fact, rather than gentle and maternal, but she had a sense of humor and obviously knew what she was doing.

More than once, Emily was surprised when Amy predicted her needs before she could even ask. Emily felt terrible all morning, but her fever never spiked past 103⁰—which she thought might be because Amy was so good at keeping her as comfortable as possible.

Emily was able to doze off for most of the morning, and she was lying in a semi-conscious drowse when she became aware of the nurse wiping her hot face with a cool washcloth.

It felt good. Emily would have dozed off again without stirring, but something felt different about the way the wet cloth stroked her face. It felt softer, gentler. Then a few strands of loose hair were brushed away from her face, the light touch almost a caress.

Emily’s eyes flew open.

Paul sat on the edge of her bed, his eyes uncharacteristically tender as he continued to wipe her hot face with the washcloth.

She smiled up at him without thinking, since she didn’t feel too terrible at the moment and she was glad to see him.

Paul smiled back. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” Then she realized what his presence here meant. “Wait. You shouldn’t be here. You need to be at court.”

“They recessed for lunch, so I came to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay.” She arched her neck as he slid the washcloth down her neck and then around to the nape, the cool moisture feeling incredibly good. “Where’s Amy?”

“I gave her a break.” Paul rewetted the washcloth in a bowl of ice water that Amy had set on a small folding table near the bed. Then he brought it back to wipe her face again.

“But you need a break too.” Emily was getting a little chilly, so she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. “You should go have—”

“I’ll grab some lunch on the way back to court. How do you like Amy?”

“I like her a lot. She’s good. She’s quiet and stays out of the way, so she hardly ever bugs me. But she has good ideas to make me feel better. She gave me a bath with lemon and eucalyptus oils that worked really well.”

“Good,” Paul murmured. He must have realized she was getting cool because he put up the washcloth. “You seem in better spirits than last time.”

“I suppose that means I’m not as grumpy. My fever isn’t as high yet, and you’re catching me at a good moment. I wasn’t exactly sweetness and light all morning.”

“I’m glad you’re doing all right. I was worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about me. You’ve got the trial to worry about. How’s jury selection going?”

“It’s taking a long time, so it looks like opening arguments won’t start until tomorrow.”

The achiness of her body intensified so quickly it almost overwhelmed her, and she had to fight desperately to remain focused on the conversation. “How are you?” she managed to ask. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“And…and your dad?”

Paul glanced away. It took him a long time to answer, during which Emily suffered from consecutive waves of hot and cold. Finally he muttered, “He hasn’t looked at me. Not once.”

Emily felt a flood of pity, so strong it vied with her physical discomfort. She dragged her hand out from under the blanket and fumbled it around until she found Paul’s arm. She squeezed it. “I’ll go with you tomorrow,” she told him hoarsely, using the last of her strength.

She was suddenly too hot again, so she pushed down the blankets impatiently and tried to breathe deeply.

Paul didn’t say anything, which was a relief. So was the wet cloth he started to wipe her face with again.

* * *

Emily’s fever rose in the afternoon, but it didn’t spike so high that she became delirious. She was exhausted and aching and ready for it to be over by the time Paul returned at five-thirty, but her fever showed no signs of breaking.

She tried to pull it together enough to ask how things went and discover how Paul was doing, but she just couldn’t concentrate for long enough to have a real conversation. Even though she'd been given excellent care all day, everything was getting on her nerves now, and she was cranky with both Paul and Amy.

She tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable, and she snapped at anyone who tried to help her. She wanted desperately to sleep, but she felt too bad to do anything except fall into a hot, restless doze. The approaching night rose up before her like a bleak, endless nightmare.

She just wanted to feel better again.

Paul must have called Dr. Franklin at some point, although Emily wasn’t aware of his doing so. Her doctor arrived at the apartment at about seven-thirty that evening and examined her with brisk efficiency.

Emily did her best to keep her mouth shut during Dr. Franklin’s examination, since anything she said was rude and uncalled for.

He hadn’t spoken to her either, except for an initial greeting, but after he’d done the routine steps, he said, “I’m going to take a little blood, if that’s all right.”

It wasn’t all right. Emily felt bad enough already, and she didn’t want to be poked with a needle. Paul was standing behind Dr. Franklin and watching her steadily, though, and he’d probably bully her into it if she tried to object.

So she held out her arm and let the doctor take her blood.

“Thank you, Mrs. Marino,” Dr. Franklin said, after he was done. “Now I’m going to give you a new medicine, one that I think will help you feel a little better.”

Emily turned back to him, feeling a surge of hope. “Really?”

He nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. Then he stood up and walked out of the room with Paul.

Emily wondered if everyone thought the fever had done something to her ears. Her hearing worked perfectly well, but everyone had conversations as if she'd gone deaf.

She heard Paul and Dr. Franklin talking about her in the hallway.

Dr. Franklin said, “I know it’s difficult for you to see her suffering, Mr. Marino, but she seems to be progressing as we expected. I’m afraid this won’t be the worst.”

“I know it won’t be the worst,” Paul replied, sounding like he was gritting the words out through his teeth. “That’s why I've asked for something to help her tolerate this better.”

“I’m going to give you something for her. I wouldn’t normally prescribe narcotics for a fever, but I think, in your wife’s case, the most important thing is to minimize the symptoms and make her more comfortable. Given her situation, I’m less worried about the other risks and side effects, and I believe this should ease much of her discomfort. Don’t leave these next to her bed for her to take on her own. And don’t give them to her if her condition is manageable with other methods. And watch her carefully after she takes the first one. If any of her symptoms grow worse, call me immediately.”

“I understand. Thank you. Why did you take the blood sample?”

The voices faded then, as the men must have walked too far away for Emily to hear them.

She tossed around in her bed, pushing the covers down to the bottom. She muttered to herself about Paul, who was too busy chatting with the doctor to remember his poor, suffering wife and return with her new medication.

* * *

Emily was able to sleep for several hours that night. Her fever had gone down a degree or two by the time it got dark outside, and the pill she’d taken had made her feel fuzzily comfortable for the first time all day. She hardly noticed Lola, the kindly nurse who sat with her all night.

When she woke up at about six in the morning, however, she knew immediately she still had a fever, even before Paul came in to take her temperature and told her it was back up to 102.6⁰.

Last time, the fever had only lasted one day, so she’d been counting on feeling better this morning.

She wasn’t. She was still sick. She still couldn’t go to court. She still had another miserable day waiting for her.

And she was still hot, sweaty, sloppy, and achy in bed, while Paul looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a magazine.

When Amy arrived at about seven-thirty, Emily was feeling pretty depressed, but she tried not to whine as the nurse drew her a lemon-eucalyptus bath and then helped her change into a clean top and shorts.

While she was in the bath, Amy changed the sheets on her bed, so it felt and smelled fresh when she crawled back in.

Paul came to see her before he left for the courthouse and gave her one of her new pills to take. He’d been quiet that morning, and a little voice in the back of her mind pestered Emily, telling her that the trial would be really hard for him and she needed to somehow help him through it.

But the fuzziness from the medication hit her almost immediately, and she dozed off into a restless sleep before she realized he’d even left.

The next thing she was aware of was a lot of noise from somewhere in the apartment.

She tried to drag herself out of sleep, but a heavy stupor had settled over her like a weight. Finally, she managed to open her eyes and turn toward her bedroom door.

She was surprised when she saw Ruth, the nice woman who cleaned the apartment, coming into her bedroom.

“Wha—” she tried to ask, but her mouth was too dry to form the complete word.

Ruth’s expression was kind as she walked over, picked up the bottle of lukewarm water, and helped Emily take a sip. “There’s been an accident,” she explained. “Your nurse cut herself real bad as she was helping me make you some broth. She had to go to the emergency room.”

Emily knew she should be shocked, worried by this news, but her brain couldn’t function that way. She just stared at Ruth, feeling hot and dazed.

“I called Mr. Marino, and he’s having the agency send over a new nurse. So I’m going to sit here with you until the new nurse comes.”

“Thank you,” Emily managed to say. She was afraid the good pill was starting to wear off, since her body was beginning to ache dully.

Ruth took the damp cloth Amy had been using on Emily’s face, got it wet in the bowl of cold water, wrung it out, and then wiped it over her face. It was too wet and dripped water all over, but it still felt good.

“I’m so sorry you’re sickly, Mrs. Marino,” Ruth murmured. “You’ve been so good for him. I can see the difference so clearly, and I hate to see you both suffer.”

For some reason, the words and the expression on the older woman’s face made Emily’s dry eyes burn.

Ruth didn’t seem to expect a reply. She just kept wiping Emily’s face—not as efficiently as Amy or as gently as Paul, but as if she meant it. She continued in a low voice, “I’m so sorry for you both. But I’ve been praying. And I’ll keep praying for you, dear.”

For no good reason, tears slipped out of Emily’s eyes and streamed down into her hair.

“Now, don’t you cry, dear,” Ruth said, wiping away the tears with the washcloth. “God is good. God is always good, even when we don't see it. I believe in miracles.”

Emily had never believed in miracles. She knew she was going to die, and she knew she was going to suffer horribly before she finally did.

But Ruth’s deep sympathy—for both her and Paul—meant a lot, just the same.

* * *

Emily didn’t like the new nurse.

The woman looked to be around sixty and had graying hair that was pulled back in a severe bun. In Emily’s fever-addled brain, she halfway believed the new nurse was a cruel schoolmarm from an old story, a strict disciplinarian with her hapless students, pitiless in her harsh pursuit of order and obedience.

She did everything she was supposed to do—gave Emily her Tylenol, wiped her face with a cool cloth, and helped her sip water—but she seemed to do it by some sort of schedule, rather than before Emily knew she needed it the way Amy had. She never helped Emily in little ways like adjusting her covers or changing her water out for a colder bottle.

Emily was sure the woman was a consummate professional, well-trained and well-experienced. The agency wouldn’t have sent her out to them otherwise.

But Emily didn’t like her at all.

She told herself it was only temporary. The new nurse was just a substitute until Amy was able to return or Lola arrived tonight. Emily managed to keep from moaning or complaining, since every time she did the new nurse gave her condescending looks of disapproval.

So Emily suffered in silence, tossing uncomfortably and waiting impatiently for the early afternoon, when she could take another one of the good pills and hopefully doze off.

She’d dropped off in a hot, restless drowse when the nurse woke her up by saying in a grating voice, “Your husband is on the telephone and insists that he speak to you.”

Emily blinked and tried to process why a phone had been thrust into her limp hand. For some reason, the nurse’s abruptness was as painful to her as a slap in the face.

Finally, Emily managed to get the phone to her ear. Her head was aching terribly again, and she was sweating so much the phone almost slipped out of her fingers. “Paul?” she said into the speaker, her voice cracking on the one word.

“How are you?” Paul voice sounded strange, although there was no way she could make her mind work enough to unravel why that might be.

“Okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I can’t get home for lunch, but I wanted to make sure you were doing all right. How is the nurse they sent over? She sounded kind of brusque.”

Emily swallowed over her dry throat and tried desperately to think. Paul seemed strange, like he was exhausted or upset or something. He wasn’t coming home for lunch. Something must be wrong.

A wave of dizziness washed over her, and there was no way she could pursue the subject. He wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. She knew it. She barely had the energy for this conversation—much less an argument about his not sharing things with her.

But she wasn’t going to add to his problems. She could deal with an unsympathetic nurse for one day. If she complained, Paul would probably come home until he was able to arrange for someone else.

He didn’t need to deal with that. He had enough on his plate without her whining.

All this Emily figured out in a few seconds of muddled reflection. “She’s fine. I’m okay.”

“All right. Good. I’ll be home by five.”

“Okay.”

Emily thought Paul would say goodbye and hang up then, but he didn’t. He stayed on the line and didn’t say anything.

She was worried about him, and she felt so terrible. She almost started to cry.

“Okay,” Paul said at last, still sounding so strange.

“Okay,” Emily repeated.

Her vision blurred over and a flood of heat overwhelmed her. The phone slipped out of her hand, but she shifted her head so her ear was still close to it on the bed.

She didn’t know when Paul hung up the phone. She never did hear the call disconnect.

She must have just dozed off, and the new nurse must have come in and picked up the phone from the bed, because it was gone the next time she was aware enough to look for it.

* * *

Emily felt worse and worse as the afternoon progressed.

She knew her fever was going up because the world became a hot whirl of noise and pain. At one-thirty, Emily tried to ask the nurse for one of the new pills Dr. Franklin had left for her the evening before. She was disconnected and disoriented, but she was sure it was time for another one. It might not bring down her fever, but at least it would mask some of the pain with that fuzziness.

But the new nurse didn't know where the pills were, since they weren't at her bedside with everything else, and Emily didn't know where to tell her to look for them.

So Emily didn’t get her pill, and her fever kept rising.

Eventually, her awareness started to blur into a succession of horrifying, surreal images.

She was burning up in her old house, but for some reason Paul was there with her, consumed by the blaze before she was. She saw his lean body and handsome face scorch into blackness.

The new nurse was a cruel, old-fashioned schoolteacher in a bun, shirtwaist, and pince-nez, making her stand outside the schoolhouse in the scorching sun and lecturing her about laziness and insubordination.

She and Paul were Hansel and Gretel who had found the gingerbread house, and the new nurse was the witch who lived there. She pushed Emily into the oven while poor Paul had to watch helplessly.

Emily knew she needed to fight off the witch so she could get back to Paul. She tried. She tried. But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t get away at all. She couldn’t even move.

When conscious awareness slammed back into her muddled mind, Emily realized she still couldn’t move. She was trying to toss and turn but could only lie flat on sheets damp with her perspiration.

Something cool and wet was wiping her face, which should have felt good, but her inability to move sent a flare of panic through her that overwhelmed any feeling of relief. She cried out for help, her voice cracked and broken.

There was water in her mouth then, which was good, which she needed, but she was so scared and upset she almost choked on it.

Then the coolness wiped over her face again, but she was still too, too hot. She still couldn’t move her arms.

She struggled helplessly, finally aware enough to open her eyes. The new nurse was leaning over her, cooling down her face with calm efficiency.

Emily didn’t want to see her. Everything in the world was clawing at her, and the new nurse just made it worse.

She tried to change positions so she could cool down a little and think more clearly, but she was trapped. She was literally trapped. She tossed her head around until she was able to see that her arms were bound with Velcro straps, the kind that were used to restrain patients who were out of control and a danger to themselves or others.

Emily panicked at the realization, frantically fighting the restraints, begging for the nurse to let her go. She didn’t think she was a danger to anyone, and she desperately needed her arms free. Her voice wasn’t working, though, and the words just choked in her throat.

She tried to calm down, somehow knowing, even in her heated confusion, that if the nurse realized she was lucid again, that she was no longer delirious, then Emily would be released from the straps.

But she couldn’t calm down. It felt like she was still in a nightmare. She writhed on the hot bed and cried out pitifully, drenched in sweat and still subjected to the woman wiping her face to bring down her fever.

Emily choked and whimpered and thrashed helplessly.

“What the fuck is going on?” a familiar voice demanded in almost a roar from the doorway. “Get away from her!”

The voice was very loud, and it grated on her ears and head, but nothing in the world had ever sounded so good.

Emily started to sob in relief as Paul strode over in his suit and tie. He shouldered the new nurse out of the way and started to release the straps.

“Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “She was out of control from her fever. She struck me more than once. It’s standard procedure to restrain a patient if—”

“Be quiet,” Paul cut into the explanation, his voice harder than Emily had ever heard it. His eyes, though, were haunted as he gazed down at Emily and finished releasing the straps.

Her arms finally free, Emily strangled on helpless sobs, each one wracking her body with pain. She reached out for Paul, and he pulled her into his arms.

“Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “You need to know that—”

“I didn’t say you could talk yet.”

Emily was bawling and couldn’t stop—all of the pain, fear, and trauma shoving her into a total emotional collapse. She clung to Paul, and he pulled her even closer. His arms around her were so tight she could barely breathe. But she wanted it, needed it. His expensive suit was cool and soft against her skin, and she buried her face in it.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her hair, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

After a minute, when Emily’s sobs had lessened, Paul loosened his embrace. “Can you talk to me for a minute?”

She felt for a moment like she was going to pass out—from heat and pain and the release of too much emotion—but she breathed deeply and wiped at her face with her hands. Then nodded up at Paul.

“Did she do anything else to you?”

“She tied me down.” While, in a different moment, her rational mind might have understood how and why such a thing had happened, right now it felt like an unbearable violation. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more scared in her life, not even when Vincent Marino had burned down her house.

“I know,” Paul said, his features twisting briefly. “Did she do anything else? Did she…hurt you?”

The nurse made a sound of outrage, but something stopped her from speaking.

Emily shook her head and buried her face against Paul’s suit again. The fabric was messy and damp now, but it still felt cool against her hot skin.

She wasn't looking, but Paul must have turned back to the new nurse. “Get out.”

“Mr. Marino,” the woman said, with impressive composure, given the situation, “I realize this has upset you. But medical ethics have always considered it appropriate to restrain patients who pose a danger to—”

“Get out!”

She must have left, but Emily didn’t see her. She could barely move now, on the verge of blacking out completely.

She felt Paul’s hand on her forehead and then her wet cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I’m going to get a bath ready for you, if that’s okay.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

When Paul got up to draw the bath, Emily curled up into the fetal position, using all the energy she had left to breathe.

She couldn’t speak, and thankfully Paul didn’t try to make her. In silence, he pulled off her clothes and carried her into the bathroom. It smelled like lemon and eucalyptus so he must have used the oils Amy had brought over yesterday.

Emily sighed hoarsely in utter relief when he lowered her into the bath. Then she sighed again when he wet a washcloth and stroked it over her hot, messy face.

“Thank you,” she managed to mumble, as her body started to cool down.  “Feels good.” She closed her eyes as she let the pleasant sensations ease her pain and tension.

Paul kept wiping her face with the cool cloth, and it felt so good. The scent from the oils seemed to cool her from the inside out, and the water embraced her hot, aching body.

She either fell asleep or passed out before the bath was over because she had no memory of getting out.

* * *

Emily’s fever finally broke that evening.

She was utterly exhausted when it was over but blissfully not hot or in pain, and she was able to have a lucid conversation at last.

Evidently, Ruth had overheard Emily crying out in her delirium and had come to the bedroom to see if she could help. The nurse had told her that she had it under control. Although Emily hadn’t been strapped down at that point, Ruth had been worried and had called Paul to tell him.

Paul had left the courthouse to come check on Emily. He told her the prosecution was just presenting the evidence from the forensic accountants, and there was no reason he’d needed to be present. He’d arrived before two-thirty that afternoon, which meant Emily had been delirious for less than an hour.

It had felt like an endless nightmare at the time, but it hadn't lasted long at all. Now that it was over, she could rationally assess and conclude it hadn’t been the end of the world. The whole incident seemed to have faded into a fuzzy blur of heat and fear.

She tried to explain that to Paul, who was still treating her like she was made of crystal and sometimes looking agonizingly guilty.

“The nurses you found for me are both wonderful,” Emily told him. They’d eaten a late dinner in her room, and now he was sitting in a chair next to her bed. “This didn’t happen because you did anything wrong. You've taken care of me perfectly. Even that…even that probably wasn't as bad as it looked. It probably just felt so horrible because I was sick. If I actually struck her when I was delirious, maybe she really did need to—”

“I saw you, Emily,” Paul interrupted thickly. “I saw how much she’d scared and upset you. No one gets to do that to you.”

Even though she was sure he was somehow being unreasonable, she was touched by his words. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was too far away, so she just gave him a hazy smile.

He smiled back faintly.

“Are you all right? What’s going on with the trial? Why weren’t you able to come home at lunch?” She remembered how strange he’d sounded on the phone and was starting to worry about it again, now that she was physically recovering.

He tightened his mouth and glanced away from her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Paul,” she prompted, a warning in her voice.

“They’re a little worried about the defense's strategy, and they needed some background information from me.” When she started to question him more, he continued, “It’s complicated, Emily, and you’re exhausted. I’ll go into it all tomorrow. I promise.”

She just nodded. She was tired, and she could see Paul was too. He looked battered. “Why don’t you go lie down? I'm okay now, and you need to rest."

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

She started to argue, but she could tell he wasn’t going to budge, so she thought of another way to handle it. “Then why don’t you lie down with me?” she suggested, patting the bed beside her. It was fresh and neat now, since Ruth had changed the sheets again before she'd left. “I’m not hot and sick anymore, and there’s no reason for you to sit in that uncomfortable chair all evening. If you won’t go to bed, at least lie down with me.”

Paul hesitated but eventually relented. He still wore his suit and tie, although he’d taken off the jacket. He toed off his shoes and climbed into the bed with her.

Too tired to be self-conscious or worried about rejection, Emily scooted over and nestled against him, relieved when he wrapped an arm around her. He smelled like Paul, like he'd had a really long day.

She rested her cheek on the side of his chest, draped an arm over his flat belly, and listened to him breathe. Gradually his breathing slowed down. Gradually his body softened, relaxed.

So did Emily's.

She hated being sick. She hated it. Paul had needed her, and she hadn’t been there for him.

He’d always been there for her.

***

Emily woke up feeling really good.

She was immediately aware that she wasn’t achy and feverish, which alone would be cause for celebration. Even before her eyes opened, she realized she must have slept well. She felt fresh, like she'd had a long night of unbroken slumber.

She also felt warm and toasty. Not hot like a fever—just nicely cozy. It was partly from the pleasant weight resting on her belly.

When she opened her eyes, she realized the weight was Paul’s arm. He was still sound asleep beside her, still wearing the white dress shirt, red tie, and black trousers from yesterday’s suit. Sometime during the night, she must have rolled over from where she’d been cuddled up at his side, and he must have rolled with her, since he was now on his stomach with one arm slung over her middle.

She liked how it felt.

In Egypt, he’d always woken up before her, so she never knew how they had ended up in bed. She liked the fact that Paul was still asleep now, that he’d been able to relax so much with her last night, that he’d instinctively moved with her when she rolled over in her sleep.

She liked being close to him, in any way she could get.

Emily looked at him as he slept, the rumpled dark hair, softened features, and thick eyelashes incredibly appealing. She felt a slow rising of an emotion that was tender, protective, almost maternal. She wanted to stroke him, cradle him, somehow ease the wounds of his so sensitive soul. Most people in the world had no idea who Paul Marino really was. But she did. She did now.

She shifted her arm slightly so she could see her left hand, and the sight of his rings there still gave her a silly little thrill.

Paul was her husband. She’d chosen him mostly because he was convenient, but she'd made the right choice. She never could have found a better one.

He would never let her be his wife for real.

She was his special duty, his responsibility, and she knew he genuinely cared about her, but he just didn’t want her as a woman. She could understand that. She’d never been his type. They only had a couple more months of marriage anyway. Just because she thought about having sex with him almost every night didn’t mean he’d want her the same way.

That was okay. She could still be a wife to him in any way he’d let her, for as long as she was alive to do it.

He needed her, whether he realized it or not.

That thought made her remember that the trial continued today. She turned her head to look at the bedside clock and saw it was almost six-thirty in the morning.

She couldn’t believe Paul had slept so long. The poor thing hadn’t even gotten out of his clothes. He must have been so tired last night.

An itch on her thigh started to bother her, so she shifted very slightly to try to scratch it, not wanting to wake Paul up yet. Her motion must have woken him anyway. His eyelids fluttered slightly before they lifted.

She was looking in his direction, and her face was only several inches away, so the first thing he saw was her.

He smiled at her groggily. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied, her smile deepening with something tender at the uncharacteristically sweet expression on his face before he oriented himself.

She saw on his face the moment he realized where he was. “Damn,” he breathed, rolling over onto his back and retrieving the arm that had still been slung over her belly. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Are you all right?”

Emily gave a little snort at his predictable inquiry about her health. “I feel great. Not sick today.”

“Good.” He rubbed his face with his left hand, obviously trying to wake himself up.

For some reason, Emily was distracted by the sight of his wedding ring on his finger—her ring—and something she hadn’t noticed yesterday. He’d undone his cuffs and pushed the sleeves of his dress shirt up his arm when he was helping her in the bath. But the cufflink was still attached to his sleeve. He’d been wearing the Damascene cufflinks she’d given him on their wedding day.

For some reason, the sight of the wedding band on his hand and the cufflink she'd picked out on his sleeve made her chest tighten.

He dropped his hand, completely unaware of her diversion. “I should get up.”

“It’s still pretty early,” she murmured, surprised when her voice came out thick. She cleared her throat. “They don’t start up until nine-thirty, right?”

“Right.”

“Even I have enough time to be ready by then.”

Paul turned to look at her, his eyes sober. “I don’t think you should try to make it to court today. You haven’t had any time to recover.”

“But they’ll probably get to my testimony today. I have to come!”

“I talked to Hathaway, since we didn’t know when you’d be well. He said we could rearrange the witnesses so that I’d testify before you do. That way, you wouldn't need to be there until tomorrow.”

Emily rolled over on her side, frowning at him. “But Hathaway thought I should testify before you, didn’t he?”

“Originally, yes. But he can make it work this way, and it would give you another day to recover.”

“I don’t need another day to recover. I want to testify whenever it will be best for the case. I’m really all right, Paul.”

His eyes scanned her face with that scrutiny that left not the tiniest detail unobserved. “They still have to get through several other witnesses. There’s no way they’re going to need you until mid-afternoon. Why don’t you rest some this morning and come after the lunch break?”

Emily started to argue, mostly because she didn’t like to feel weak. Then she remembered that the last time she’d had a bout of fever, she’d slept for most of the following day. She might not be prepared to give articulate testimony after she’d gotten exhausted from sitting in court all day. So she said reluctantly, “I guess that would be all right, if you don’t think they’ll need me before then.”

“They won’t.” He relaxed on the bed again, obviously having no pressing desire to get up and start the day.

She scooted over a little and fit herself against his side, reaching to stroke his chest over his shirt. She didn’t know if he really liked it—he was always a little stiff when she initiated any touches—but at least he didn’t jerk away like he used to. She couldn’t help but think it might be good for him to open himself up to being close to someone again.

“I should get up,” Paul murmured, after a few minutes. His arm wasn’t really holding her, but it had ended up draped around her. “I need a shower.”

He did kind of need a shower, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. He also needed to shave. “It doesn’t take you long to get ready,” she said, “You have plenty of time.”

He let out a long exhalation, which she could feel in his chest. “They’re coming after me.”

Emily raised her head to look down at him, her hand growing still, her fingers spanning one side of his ribs. “What do you mean?”

He met her eyes. “My father’s defense team. They’re going to come after me. Decimate me to save my father.”

Her heartbeat had accelerated as she processed his words. “But that doesn’t make sense. You have nothing to do with his trafficking, smuggling, drug-dealing, and everything.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re going to argue that I’m pursuing some kind of vendetta against him and have created this entire case because of my childish need to get back at him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” She was outraged by even the thought of it and horrified at the idea of Paul having to suffer through such a cross-examination. “How could you have fabricated the entire case? I thought they would try to cast doubt on my credibility, since I’ve got more direct evidence than you do. That’s what they did at the deposition.”

“I’m sure they’ll do the same thing. They’re not going to take it easy on you, but I’m going to be their real target.”

“But I don’t understand. They should go after me, not you.” Her hand was still resting on the curve of his ribcage—his body warm and substantial beneath her hand, the thin fabric of his shirt soft as it stretched over his skin.

“They’re going to use our marriage as evidence of my ongoing manipulations. They’ll argue that I convinced you to lie for me.”

“But you didn’t. We’ll just tell the truth. You haven’t done anything wrong, Paul!”

His eyes, for just a moment, were open wounds. “But I have. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. And they’re going to dredge up every one of them.”

“But none of them have to do with the case,” she insisted, her voice growing slightly shrill in her absolute indignation. “Anything else will be irrelevant.”

“It won’t matter. They’ll make it relevant.” He gave her a little smile. “At least this means they won’t be as hard on you. I’d rather go through it than have you go through it.”

She choked on her outrage. “I’m supposed to be going through it. Not you.”

She sat up, breathing heavily and trying to think through what Paul had just told her. She hated Vincent Marino. Hated him. Not just for what he’d done to her, but for what he was still doing to his son.

When her eyes rested on Paul again, she saw he was gazing up at her with something soft in his eyes. “You look like you could strangle him,” he murmured, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. “Although I’m not sure your hands would fit around his throat.”

She wanted to smile back, but she frowned at him instead. “I’ll have you know my hands aren’t that little.”

Paul’s smile widened, and he reached over to pick up her left hand. He held it against his much larger one and gave her a significant look. Her hand did look small and pale next to his.

She just scowled at him. Then she couldn’t help but smile. She lay back down, wrapping an arm around his belly. She loved how the flat, firm muscles felt beneath her forearm and how it rose and fell slightly with his breathing.

“I should get up,” Paul said again, still giving no indication of actually moving. “I never stay in bed this late anymore.”

“It’s not even seven,” she murmured, idly stroking his belly the way she’d been stroking his chest earlier. She really liked how he felt this morning—relaxed, masculine, real, human.

The covers had slipped down when she sat up, and now they were pushed down to Paul’s thighs instead of his hips. As she was watching her hand slide over his abdomen, her gaze slipped lower, and she noticed a bulge at the front of his trousers.

She swallowed hard and managed not to jerk in surprise, sustaining her light caress.

Paul was hard. The knowledge gave her a thrill of delight and hope before she could talk herself down with logic.

It might not mean anything. Probably didn’t. Men woke up hard all the time, evidently. It was likely just an incidental thing and didn’t have anything to do with her. Paul had never shown any interest in her physically.

She’d offered herself to him, and he’d refused.

She’d tried to be as attractive as possible on the first night they shared a bed in Egypt, in the hopes that maybe sex would just happen naturally. For a moment, as they’d been talking in bed, she’d actually thought it would. He’d just wanted to go to sleep, though. She'd been very disappointed.

Paul was gorgeous, sexy, experienced, and charismatic in every way. And Emily wasn’t. She knew how much he cared about her now, but he just didn’t think about her that way.

He wouldn’t have gotten hard because she was pressed up beside him, stroking his belly.

Quite involuntarily, her hand slipped a little lower on his belly, just above the waistband of his trousers. She never would have been daring enough to move it even lower, but she wanted to. She really wanted to.

“Okay,” Paul said, a resonance to his voice she didn’t recognize, “No more procrastinating. I really do need to get up. I’ve got some work to do before court.”

She rolled over and pulled back her hand, feeling ridiculously rejected but trying to hide it. She watched as he got out of bed and headed out of her bedroom.

If he wanted her—if he wanted her even a little—it would have been so easy for him to make a move.

He must have just woken up hard.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, and Emily had been in the witness stand for almost two hours now.

She was starting to feel like she might faint.

She was just so ridiculously tired. Two days of fever must have taken more out of her than she’d realized, and it was much harder than she’d expected to keep from getting angry when the defense attorney’s questioning became more and more aggressive.

Plus, she had to deal with it all in front of Vincent Marino, who was sitting quietly behind the defense table, his cold eyes never leaving Emily's face. She'd looked at him directly once, and his grizzled face and smug expression had deeply disturbed her, so she avoided looking at him again.

Hathaway's direct examination had gone fine. They’d practiced all of her answers, and she was able to express herself clearly, calmly, and convincingly. Even when the defense attorney, a smarmy man named Edgar Barton, got up to cross-examine her, she’d still felt fine. She’d responded to all of his questions—even his rude and inappropriate ones—without faltering.

But she was starting to feel really tired now. The room seemed to be getting hot, even though she’d felt perfectly comfortable for most of the afternoon. She’d gotten so thirsty that she’d finished the glass of water that Hathaway's assistant had poured for her when she’d taken the stand.  No one seemed to care that her water was gone, but she still had a lot of talking left to do.

“So you’re telling me, Mrs. Marino,” Barton continued, “that you overheard evidence of a crime and were just going to keep it to yourself?”

“I was threatened by Mr. Marino, and I was scared. So, yes, for a while I kept it to myself.” Her mouth was dry now, and she tried to swallow to conjure up some saliva. There was an almost full pitcher of water on the defense’s table. And another one on the prosecutor’s table. And another one near the jury box. She would have thought that someone would be considerate enough to refill her glass.

“So you just woke up one morning and suddenly decided that justice was more important than fear?”

“No, I didn’t just wake up and decide that,” she said, coughing a little on the last word. She wondered if she could just ask for more water. Surely that wouldn’t be out of order. “He burned down my house.”

This statement got an objection, and there was a brief discussion until the judge sustained the objection.

“My house was burned down,” she rephrased. “And I was sure he was the one who did it. That’s what changed my mind.”

Barton must have finished with this particular line of questioning, since he moved suddenly to an entirely different topic. Hathaway had warned her that the sudden shift was one of the attorney’s most effective strategies, but she still had trouble orienting herself when he jumped to something entirely new.

“Did you know Mr. Marino before you overheard this alleged conversation?”

She blinked. “Yes. I’ve known of him all my life. Everyone in our neighborhood knew him.”

“But did you know him personally?”

“Personally?”

“Personally, yes,” Barton continued, as if she were not quite mentally competent. “Other than by reputation, did you know him personally?”

“I’d never had any personal conversations, but I’d seen him in person,” she said slowly, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “He came into my dad’s store a few times.”

This was evidently what he’d been waiting for, since he pursued it. “As a customer?”

“He might have bought something. I don’t remember.”

“What other reason would he have for coming into your father’s store?”

“He wanted to buy the store. He was trying to buy up the whole block.”

“And your dad sold to him?”

“No. He wouldn’t sell.” That was what she tried to say, but her mouth was so dry she could barely speak, and the room spun a few times as a wave of heat and fatigue washed over her.

She glanced over to where Paul was seated. He’d been watching her with a calm, steady gaze, but his brow lowered now, as if he recognized something was wrong.

Briefly terrified that she was actually going to pass out, she turned to the judge, since she didn’t know who else she was supposed to ask. “I’m sorry, your honor. Is there any way I can get some more water?”

The judge—an attractive black woman in her fifties—looked surprised but then nodded to the bailiff, who walked over, took Emily’s glass, filled it with water from one of the pitchers, and returned it to her.

Emily gulped it gratefully, feeling better as soon as she’d swallowed the water.

Barton hadn’t looked at all pleased with the interruption to his momentum, but he knew what he was doing. He closed the gap between the questions by repeating, “Did your dad sell the store to Mr. Marino?”

“No. He wouldn’t sell.”

“Why not?”

“His father had bought the property and opened that store. My dad thought it was his birthright, and he didn’t like the defendant.”

“Didn’t he?” He looked like she’d said something revealing, and Emily started to worry she was falling into a trap.

She took another gulp of water and tried to clear her mind, but she felt so weak her hands trembled a little.

“So your father and Mr. Marino fought?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, not real fighting. All my dad did was keep saying no.”

“So Mr. Marino continued to make purchase offers to your dad?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. It went on for a while.” Emily knew she was too affected by her illness when her eyes burned at the memory of those last months with her father, when he’d been so incredibly stressed with trying to keep his store above water and too proud to even consider selling to Vincent Marino.

“Did you resent the defendant for that?”

“What?” Despite the water, Emily’s mouth and head still felt cottony.

“Did you resent Mr. Marino for the pressure he put on your father?”

“Why would I?”

“Did you love your father?”

“Of course.”

“So did you resent it when Mr. Marino started to squeeze him out of business in an attempt to persuade him to sell?”

Hathaway objected to something about the questioning, but Emily was too blurry to follow the details. She used the brief pause to try to pull herself together and get her mind to work better than it was.

When Barton started to question her again, he asked, “How did you feel when the defendant used his influence in the neighborhood to keep your father’s store from turning a profit?”

Emily stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t know how I can ask the question any clearer. How did you feel when Mr. Marino used his influence in the neighborhood to squeeze your father out of his business?”

“I didn’t know he did that.” She was absolutely horrified by the idea—by what Vincent Marino might have done to her poor father.

“How profitable was your father’s store in the last months of his life?”

“Not profitable at all. He was trying to keep it from folding.”

“And who did you blame for that?”

“No one. It was just one of those things.”

“You didn’t blame Mr. Marino?”

“I didn’t know he was doing anything.” A few embarrassing tears streamed from her eyes. “My dad never told me. I thought it was just one of those things.”

“You didn’t resent Mr. Marino for it?”

“Objection,” Hathaway interrupted. “Asked and answered.”

The judge sustained the objection, and the brief pause gave Emily a chance to hurriedly wipe away the tears. She was a wreck. She was doing a terrible job. Talking about her father like this—learning the truth about what he’d had to go through without her ever knowing—was heartbreaking. She didn’t dare look over to Paul. He would be so disappointed in her.

“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”

The shift in topic was so abrupt that Emily couldn’t follow it. “What?”

“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”

“No,” she admitted, “But he didn’t—”

“So your courtship and marriage were…sudden?”

“Yes.” She sniffed a few times, desperately needing a tissue.

Barton didn’t give her time to explain further. “Did you find it surprising that a rich, attractive, older man would be willing to marry someone like you?”

The question hurt and surprised Emily so much she gasped.

When it looked like Hathaway was about to object, Barton added, “I mean, marry a teenage girl he'd never shown any interest in.”

“There were certain circumstances,” she began, trying desperately to think clearly, even though her hands were shaking helplessly and her eyes still blurred with tears.

“Ah, circumstances,” Barton interrupted. “Was your testifying in this trial part of the marriage agreement you made with your husband?”

Emily gulped, understanding where this was going. “Yes.”

“Do you believe that your husband is in love with you?”

It was awful. Absolutely awful. That Paul didn’t love her, and that she was ruining him now by speaking the truth. She choked, more tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Please direct the witness to answer the question, your honor.”

“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer.”

Emily managed to force back the emotion. “No. He’s not in love with me.”

“Did your aunt recently die, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your mother?”

She shrugged. “On the street somewhere.”

“Have you been diagnosed with a terminal illness?”

“Yes.”

“Are you seventeen years old?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Marino, has your husband taken advantage of you?”

“No!”

“You wouldn’t consider it taking advantage if a man marries a vulnerable girl in order to get her to testify against his father?”

“That’s not how it happened.” She was washed with heat again, hating her weakness, her illness, her stupidity, everything that had led her to make such a mess of this now. “That’s not why he married me.”

Barton arched his eyebrows. “Do you care for your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Would you try to help him whenever you could?”

“I wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Please answer the question.”

“Yes, I would help him when I could, but I wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Do you like to please him?”

The room was spinning again, and it was too hot. Emily clutched at the seat of her chair, desperately trying to breathe. She couldn’t pass out. She just couldn’t.

“Please answer the question, Mrs. Marino.”

She opened her mouth. Tried to answer. But the room darkened around her.

“Your honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer the question.” Her voice had been gentler than normal, but it changed when she turned her head and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Marino.”

Emily nodded. Tried again to answer. But she felt herself swaying on her seat.

“Mrs. Marino?” the judge asked. Then, “I said sit down, Mr. Marino.”

“Your honor,” Hathaway jumped in. “We request a short recess. The witness has spent the last two days with a high fever. It’s obvious she’s not yet fully recovered.”

“You have thirty minutes,” the judge said. “But then we have to move on.”

Emily wasn’t sure what happened after that. Maybe she actually did pass out for a few seconds. The next thing she was aware of was Paul’s arms around her, his helping her out of the room, then his settling her on a loveseat in some sort of small conference room.

She leaned against him, shaking desperately although she didn’t have any tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paul. I messed everything up.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, his arms still holding her tightly. “You didn’t mess anything up. You did fine.”

“No, I didn’t. I was terrible.” She stared up at Hathaway, who was looking down on her with a surprising sympathy in his eyes. He hadn't seemed to care that much about her before. “Wasn’t I?”

“No, you really weren’t,” he said. “In fact, I think stepping into you was a mistake on Barton’s part. Marino had obviously told him what buttons to push, but he didn’t expect you to be so fragile or he wouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“I’m not fragile,” she gasped, offended by the word despite the circumstances.

Paul stroked her hair and murmured dryly, “Let’s try to focus on essentials.”

The faint irony in his tone actually helped. “How could my breakdown have helped? Didn’t it look like I was overwhelmed by how Paul had taken advantage of me? Or maybe they thought I was faking to earn sympathy.”

“There's no way you were faking—you turned dead white. We can clear up the circumstances of your marriage in redirect,” Hathaway said. “The incident made Barton look like a bully. Several of the jurors looked like they wanted to jump up and help you themselves. You did fine, Mrs. Marino. You did just fine.”

She nodded, something easing in her chest. She looked up at Paul. “Sorry I’m such a wreck.”

“You’re not a wreck,” he objected gently, wiping lingering tears from her face with his thumb. “You’re sick.”

Emily was really tired of being sick.

* * *

Emily was exhausted but steady again when she took the witness stand one more time.

Barton, evidently realizing any further cross-examination would cast him in a negative light, declared he was through with her as a witness. Then Hathaway asked for a redirect examination.

He began, “Did you agree to testify against Mr. Vincent Marino after you married your husband?”

“No. I had agreed to do so before.”

“Did your husband originally suggest you testify?”

“No. It was my idea from the beginning. He didn’t know anything about it until my aunt and I had already gone to the FBI.”

“Who proposed the marriage between you and your husband?”

“I did.”

“Why did you ask Mr. Marino to marry you?”

“I had three months to live. I wanted to get married before I died.”

“Why do you believe he agreed?”

“Because he’s a good man, and he felt sorry for me.”

“Do you trust your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Have you known him to lie to you?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever taken advantage of you in any way?”

“No,” Emily said, looking over at Paul, who was sitting in his seat again, watching her steadily with an expression she was too far away to read.

Feeling an outpouring of affection, she continued, “He’s never taken advantage of me. He’s never been anything but caring, considerate, generous, and good to me. He’s given me more than I could ever dream of—and not asked for anything in return. He has selflessly sat by my bed when I was sick for hours to take care of me. Except for my father, no man has ever treated me better than he has. He wants justice for his father, not vengeance. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

Something twisted on Paul’s face. He put a hand over his mouth, like he was rubbing his chin, and glanced away from her.

Emily’s eyes returned to Hathaway, who concluded, “That’s all, your honor.”

The judge dismissed her and announced that the trial would resume the next morning.

As Emily walked shakily past the defense table, she couldn’t help but finally glance over at Vincent Marino.

He arched his eyebrows and smiled at her—mockingly, tauntingly—as if he couldn’t believe she’d just said what she’d said.

But she had meant it. She’d meant all of it.

* * *

That evening, Emily took a long bath and pulled on her pajamas. Then, feeling restless and at loose ends, she’d wandered around looking for Paul.

He hadn’t said anything about her redirect testimony, but she hadn’t expected him to. He was a private man, and he wouldn’t know how to respond to her earnest declaration.

Emily didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so she wasn’t about to bring it up herself.

He wasn’t in his office, and he wasn’t in the kitchen or main living area. She eventually found him in the media room, stretched out on the sofa and working on his laptop. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and his feet were bare.

He usually worked in his office, so she was surprised to see him in this room. She was actually glad, though, since it meant she had an excuse to join him.

She walked over to the couch and lifted up his feet to make room for herself to sit down. Then she replaced his feet in her lap.

He cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly.

“Well, I wanted to watch TV, and you were taking all the room,” she explained.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, closing his laptop and putting it on the side table.

“I’m fine. Tired, but fine. What about you?”

“I’m fine too.” He clicked on the television and started to flip the channels.

She wasn't sure he was telling her the whole truth. Tomorrow, he would have to take the witness stand and be ripped to shreds by Barton in front of his father. Since his feet were in her lap, she took one of them with both hands and started to massage it.

Paul jerked in surprise.

“I give good foot rubs,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure if her foot rubs were good or not.

But who would turn down even a mediocre foot rub?

He looked dubious, but he didn’t pull his foot away, so she massaged it as skillfully as she could. Paul kept flipping the channels, but she could hear his breathing slow down as she kneaded his foot. Then it felt like his body was relaxing.

After several minutes, she switched to the other foot. Eventually, Paul landed on a cable news channel and left it there. When she looked over again, his eyes were closed.

He wasn’t asleep though. Occasionally his breathing would thicken to almost a groan.

His feet were like everyone else’s feet—not the most beautiful things in the world. But she loved them. She loved how Paul’s body had softened. She loved that she had the power to make him feel better.

Finally, her hands got tired, so she let them drop by her sides. She looked at Paul’s face and wondered if he'd fallen asleep after all.

Then his eyes opened. He smiled at her, looking drowsy and content.

Her heart surged with tender possessiveness at the thought that she might have made him look that way.

She wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe they moved at the same time. But he reached down the couch toward her and she climbed up toward him. She ended up stretched out beside him, nestled between his body and the back of the sofa.

It was so nice. All her life, she’d never known how nice it was just to cuddle up next to a man, have him hold her against him, feel his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She might have died without ever knowing it.

She wasn’t sure who fell asleep first, but eventually both of them did—because they were still on the couch together when she woke up the next morning.

***

Emily’s stomach twisted anxiously as she rode in the back of a chauffeured car to the courthouse the following morning.

She was even more nervous now than she’d been the day before. Her part of the trial might be over, but Paul’s would start today.

She was so worried for him.

He’d barely said a word all morning, except for his normal greeting and inquiry about her health. His face was calm, stoic, as he sat beside her in the back of the car. He stared out the window, and someone who didn’t know him as well as she did would probably think that he was perfectly composed, perfectly at ease.

But he wasn’t.

When she noticed him absently rubbing the back of his neck, she was concerned enough to break the silence. “You didn’t get a crick in your neck or anything from sleeping on the couch, did you?”

He looked over at her, faintly surprised. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because I know it was kind of cramped and—”

“Emily, the couch is huge. I was perfectly comfortable.”

“Okay,” she said, eyeing his calm face. She had no idea how he did it, how he masked his emotions like that. She’d always found it so hard to hide what she was feeling.

“Emily, I’m really all right. You don’t have to look like I’m on my way to the gallows.”

The dry note in his voice was a relief. She relaxed into a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do a lot better than me and not break down in tears or faint or anything.”

Paul actually chuckled at that. “I sure hope I don’t faint.”

“You’ll do great,” she murmured, leaning her head back against the seat as she gazed over at him. “And it will be over by lunchtime.”

His face sobered, and he looked at her reflectively. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t say it.

“What is it?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “What if…what if you leave the courtroom during my testimony?”

She gasped and stiffened her back. “No! Why would I do that?”

“There’s no reason you have to hear all of it.”

“I want to hear it. I want to be there for you.”

“I know you do, and I appreciate it. But it’s not going to be pleasant. I’d rather you not hear the whole, ugly rehearsal of every sin I’ve ever committed.”

“I don’t care if it’s not pleasant. I’m not going to leave. It would look like I’m…like I’m ashamed of you or something. I’m not ashamed.” She glared at him, daring him to challenge her on this. “I’m not going to leave.”

Paul just nodded and glanced away.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Emily asked, “Did you look at the newspapers this morning?”

He turned back toward her, his expression changing. “Yes. I did.”

“I was too scared to look. What are they saying?”

In response to a defense motion about how media coverage of the trial would expose confidential corporate information to the public, the judge had closed the courtroom to the media for most of the hearings, including both Emily’s and Paul’s testimony. But naturally word would get out about trial proceedings anyway.

“They’ve got that we’re married and that you’re sick, so they’ve concocted a tragic love story for us,” Paul said. “They’ve got that my dad was threatening you, but not the reason, and he doesn’t come off well in the headlines trying to threaten a teenage girl. Overall, they seem to be on our side. That may change at any moment, of course.”

It didn’t sound as bad as Emily had feared. “Maybe it won’t. I think we’re a lot more sympathetic than your dad is.”

Paul gave a soft huff of amusement. “No argument here.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm. “You’ll do great today.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Emily shifted in her uncomfortable seat, praying Paul’s cross-examination would be over soon. Hathaway’s direct examination had been simple and brief, merely establishing what Paul knew of his father’s illegal activities and how he knew it.

The cross-examination was something else.

It seemed to have gone on forever, and Barton showed no signs of wrapping it up. Paul was doing a much better job than Emily had done—he’d been cool, clear, and articulate in his responses to every question, and he gave no obvious signs of being under stress or even of being particularly concerned by the nature of the questioning.

But, to Emily, he looked a little pale around the mouth, and there was a tension in his jaw that shouldn’t be there. This was hard for him. Really hard. She wanted it to be over.

Barton had done exactly what Paul had predicted—dredged up every act of questionable morality or dubious legality in his entire history. It wasn’t any fun for Emily. She didn’t want to hear about every stupid, reckless thing Paul had done as a teenager. She didn’t want to hear about all of the women Paul had fucked, the drugs he’d taken, the cars he’d wrecked. She didn’t want to hear about the things he felt guilty about, the things he knew he’d done wrong. But Barton asked about them all.

Hathaway jumped in several times to object to certain lines of questioning, and some of those objections the judge sustained, but there was still too much that Paul had to admit.

Paul hadn’t looked at her. Not once. He hadn’t looked at his father either. His eyes focused on Barton whenever the man was speaking, and then he would sometimes move his gaze to the jury as he answered. Emily thought he was doing a remarkable job—admitting his faults but not faltering on his testimony.

But it was just going on for too long.

Then Barton did one of his sudden shifts. “Do you have scars on your back, Mr. Marino?”

“Yes.” Paul didn’t look tense or surprised, but Emily was sure he was.

She held her breath, appalled by this new line of questioning.

“When did you get them?”

“When I was seventeen.”

“How did you get them?”

“I was arguing with my father, and I fell backwards into a china cabinet. The glass panes broke and cut me up.”

“He hit you?”

“No. He pushed me back from him, and I fell backward.”

“So you were attacking him?”

“No.”

“Then why did he need to push you back?”

“I don’t think he needed to, but I was in his face, and he didn’t like it.”

“Why were you arguing?”

“I’d just been arrested for drug possession.” Paul said the words matter-of-factly, but she knew how much this incident haunted him, and she couldn’t imagine how hard it was to have it all laid bare in a public courtroom.

“So you were at fault?”

Paul lifted his eyebrows. “For possessing drugs?  Yes, I was at fault for that.”

“That was the reason for the argument, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t. The argument wasn’t about the drugs.”

“What was it about, then?”

“What it was always about. I wasn’t the son that he wanted.”

“So it was his fault?” Barton made the question dubious, as if he couldn’t believe Paul’s pettiness.

“We were both at fault.”

“But you’ve always resented him for what happened?”

“Yes, I’ve resented him.”

“But you were the one who broke the law?”

“Yes, I broke the law.”

“And you were going after him in the argument, and all he did was defend himself?”

Since that wasn’t a question, Paul just stared at Barton steadily and didn’t answer.

“You’d asked him for help with—”

“No,” Paul interrupted curtly. “I hadn’t asked him for help. I haven’t asked him for anything since I was thirteen. I’ll never ask him for anything again.”

Barton looked nonplussed by the reply—far more forthcoming than anything else Paul had said during the cross-examination. He must not have thought of a way to use it, however, since he moved on. “Let’s talk about August 23—four years ago. You crashed your car that night, didn’t you?”

Before Paul could respond, Hathaway broke in, “Objection, your honor. As I have pointed out several times now, the witness is not on trial. Whether or not he crashed his car is immaterial to the case.”

“It goes to establishing a pattern of conflict between Mr. Marino and his father,” Barton explained.

The judge shook her head. “That pattern has been sufficiently established. Dial it back, Mr. Barton. The objection is sustained.”

Emily released her pent breath.

“Mr. Marino,” Barton said, turning back to Paul, “Did you manipulate your way into your current position?”

“Excuse me?” Paul asked. Emily couldn’t tell if he was really confused by the shift in topic or just stalling on purpose.

“Your current job. Did you get that job through manipulation?”

“Yes, it was a kind of manipulation. I didn’t break the law. I just applied an unorthodox kind of persuasion.” Emily was so proud of Paul. His voice and expression never wavered, and he wasn’t letting Barton fluster or confuse him in the slightest.

Barton continued, “If you were willing to go to such unorthodox lengths to get a job, why should we believe you aren’t doing so now in fabricating a murder case against your father?”

“You can believe it because I haven’t done so.”

“You were the one who approached the authorities with the detailed information about your father’s alleged illegal activities. Not the other way around.”

“Correct.”

“But you only did this after Mrs. Marino had gone to the authorities first with her story about being threatened?”

“Correct.”

“How did you know she’d gone to the authorities at all?”

“It was quite clear that my father had been threatening her for some reason, and then it was quite clear that the FBI had some basis for a case, since they’d started sniffing around. I put two and two together.”

“You weren’t in collaboration with your wife before she went to the FBI?

“She wasn’t my wife at the time. And, no, I wasn’t in collaboration with her.”

Emily held her breath again, certain that Barton was going to pursue the same line of questioning he had with her—painting Paul into a heartless, manipulative seducer of teenage girls.

But he didn’t.

Maybe the dramatic conclusion of her testimony had convinced him that it wasn't an effective card to play with the jury.

Instead, Barton began, “Hating your father as you do—”

“I don’t hate my father,” Paul interrupted.

“I’m sorry,” Barton said, feigning confusion, “I thought you just testified that…”

“I said I resented my father. I never claimed to hate him.”

“Ah, I see.” Barton smiled. “Resenting him as you do, would you be happy if your father was convicted in this trial?”

“I would be pleased that justice was done.”

“You wouldn’t be happy?”

Paul met Barton’s eyes evenly. “I don’t think any scenario regarding my father has the power to make me happy.”

“Why not?” For once, Barton seemed to be asking an honest question, as if he really wanted to know the answer.

And, for the first time, Paul looked away from the defense attorney. In that moment, Emily knew why.

“Mr. Marino?” Barton persisted, looking faintly pleased that he’d finally managed to flap this unflappable witness.

Paul didn’t respond. He briefly moved a hand to his face, covering his mouth in a characteristic gesture. His eyes were focused on an empty spot in the air.

“Your honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mr. Marino, please answer the question,” the judge instructed.

Paul looked back at Barton. His eyes were absolutely heart-breaking, even from as far away as Emily was sitting. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, and there was no way not to believe him.

“Because I still love him,” Paul admitted. “But he’ll never love me.”

The courtroom was dead silent for a long time.

Emily’s eyes burned, and she raised a hand to her chest—instinctively trying to hold her heart in place because it just hurt so much. She could only imagine how hard those words had been for Paul to say. They must have been ripped out of him.

Barton asked Paul a few more questions, but Emily barely heard them. They didn’t matter. They weren’t important. And she was so relieved when Barton concluded his examination, and Hathaway said there would be no redirect.

Paul got up from the witness stand and walked back to where Emily was seated. He was wearing another sleek black suit—and he held himself with the same confidence as always, his shoulders straight, his eyes steady.

Emily was almost shaking with emotion when he sat down beside her. He hadn’t really even looked at her. He hadn’t looked at anyone.

His body was tense beside her, and his eyes focused blankly on the courtroom proceedings. She wanted to hug him. She desperately wanted to hug him, but she knew she couldn’t do it.

Paul would never be able to accept her affection openly, in public like this—not after what he’d just been through.

But she couldn’t bear not to do anything, so she reached over and picked up the hand that he’d rested on the seat beside him. His hand had always been really warm, but it was cool right now. Far too cool.

She squeezed his hand, focused forward, not wanting to make him feel awkward by even looking at him.

She almost cried when he squeezed her hand back.

She didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull his away. So she held his hand—the only thing she could do—until the judge announced the trial would recess for lunch.

* * *

Emily took a long bath that evening and then pulled on a white camisole and pink cotton pajama pants. She felt restless and upset, and she wanted to just hibernate. But Chris called, so she had to talk to him.

She ended up crying on the phone, since she was already emotionally exhausted. He was her friend, but he didn’t understand any of her choices, and she couldn’t make him understand.

When she finally hung up, she went to find Paul. She needed comfort, even just from his silent presence. She found him in the media room, but this time he didn’t have his laptop. He was sitting on the couch, wearing the black trousers to his suit and the French blue dress shirt without the tie or jacket. He was staring at the television, but she didn’t think he was really seeing it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, when she came into the room.

She gave her head a little nod and sat down beside him, folding up her legs beneath her. She was afraid if she said anything, she would start to cry again.

“You were talking to Chris?”

She nodded again.

He didn’t reply, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was far away. His shoulders were tense, and that muscle was twitching in his jaw. “How are you doing, Paul?” she asked. When her voice came out too hoarsely, she cleared her throat.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t believe you.”

Paul met her eyes, and his mouth lifted at one corner, almost bitterly. “It’s nothing new, Emily. It’s just the same stuff I’ve dealt with for years.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard.”

He didn’t reply. He just stared at the television. Emily wanted desperately to hug him, to comfort him, to show him that she was there for him.

But he still looked so stiff and guarded. She was afraid he would pull away, reject her, and that would hurt.

She sat for a while and tried to decide what she should do. She just didn’t have any experience in dealing with men, particularly with someone as profoundly private as Paul.

But she was sure—she was absolutely sure—he needed something, and she was the only one here to give it to him. If he rejected her, he rejected her. She didn’t have very long left to live with memories of rejection anyway.

So she pulled herself up on her knees and reached over to wrap her arms around him.

He froze, as if he were surprised or reluctant, but then, after a tense moment, his arms went around her too. Then they tightened, like he’d let down some sort of barrier, let himself go.

He felt so warm and hard and needy that she couldn't pull away, and she ended up halfway in his lap, with her legs draped over his thighs and her upper body pressing into his chest. They hugged for a long time, tightly, nakedly needy. Then Paul’s arms loosened some and she relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

The television was still on—it sounded like sports—but Emily was barely aware of it.

She breathed in the smell of Paul, warm and masculine, and took comfort in the fact that he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.

After a long time, she kind of wanted to say something, but she had no idea what to say. She idly stroked his side over his soft shirt and looked up at his face.

He was gazing down on her, and his eyes were so tender they took her breath away.

Her lips parted. She was trapped by his gaze, and something deep inside her started to shudder.

Paul lifted a hand to her face. He brushed her hair back and then cupped her cheek. His eyes were the most beautiful, hypnotizing things she’d ever seen.

A rush of feeling swept through her body and then rose up in her chest. She thought—she thought—he was going to kiss her. It looked like he wanted to, like he thought she was precious to him.

And Emily desperately wanted to kiss him.

So, without thinking, acting only by instinct, she stretched up and pressed her lips against his, very lightly. Then she pulled back just slightly, letting her mouth hover in front of his, feeling his breath on her skin.

Then they were kissing again, deeper and more hungrily. Paul’s hand slid backward to cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair and holding her steadily against his mouth. She fisted both of her hands in the fabric of his shirt, reeling from emotion and sensation, needing to hold onto something.

Paul’s mouth moved urgently against hers—more hungry than skillful—and now his tongue slid beyond her lips, licking the underside of each in turn. It felt so good she gave a silly moan at the back of her throat, and then his tongue was all the way inside her mouth. Stroking. Fluttering. Tangling with hers.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and her back arched instinctively, pressing her breasts against his hard chest. She could feel the kiss so deeply—in her mouth, all through her body—that she started to squirm.

Paul’s mouth tore away from hers without warning, and she let her head fall backward, gasping for air. He immediately took advantage of the exposure of her neck and mouthed a hungry line down her throat.

“Oh God!” she gasped, clutching, almost clawing at his shirt. The sensations overwhelmed her, pulsing through her body with her blood.

Paul slid his hands down to span her ribs, holding her steady and easing her into a deeper arch of her spine. He was sucking the pulse at her throat, and it felt so good she moaned helplessly.

She could feel her nipples tighten and rub in delicious torment against the cotton of her camisole. One of Paul’s hands shifted to stroke over the swell of her breast, teasing the shameless peak of her nipple with the heel of his hand.

“Eh heh!” she gasped out as the stimulation tugged with exquisite pleasure between her legs. She let go of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to hold on and hold his head in place at the same time.

He made a rough sound against her skin that absolutely thrilled her and caused the throbbing to intensify between her thighs. She squirmed eagerly in his lap, trying to feel as much of him as she could.

“Oh fuck,” Paul rasped, raising his head and drawing back. When she tried to pull him toward her again, he said, “I’m sorry. Emily, wait.”

She was so disoriented from the sensations and so disappointed in the abrupt interruption that she gave a little whimper. She blinked at him, her skin flushed red, her body aching with arousal. “You don’t want to?”

Very carefully, he eased her off his lap and back over to the seat of the couch. “I’m sorry, Emily. I shouldn’t have…I can’t do this.”

She’d fallen into an awkward flop, but she managed to sit up. Her body was still hot and pulsing, and it was all she could do not to grab Paul’s tense body and pull him down on top of her. “Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, sitting stiffly and staring down at the floor. His skin had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

“But I wanted to,” she told him, hoping it would make a difference.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He’d been breathing heavily, and she could see him trying to even out his breath. “But we can’t…I don’t want to do this just because we both had really bad days.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard, finally understanding. “Okay.”

He looked over at her searchingly. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded at him, fighting not to look as crushed as she felt. “It’s okay.”

She understood. He’d been weak. He’d needed solace, company, somebody’s warm presence. And she’d been there to give it to him. It hadn’t mattered, at the moment, that she wasn’t the kind of girl he was attracted to. It was a weak moment, and he’d succumbed to it.

But she wasn’t someone he really wanted that way.

Paul stood up with a strange, low groan and started to leave the room, but he looked back at her one more time. “I’m really sorry. Are you…”

“I’m okay,” she finished for him, giving him the best smile she could. He’d done so much for her. She wasn’t going to let him feel guilty about this. “I understand. I’m okay.”

Paul left.

Emily collapsed onto the couch and lay in a hot, frustrated heap. She was brutally disappointed, and she felt utterly rejected. She breathed deeply, though, and talked herself down from the feelings.

It wasn’t fair to Paul for her to place such expectations on him. He’d given her absolutely everything he could, and she just couldn’t expect him to want her the way she wanted him. She couldn’t—she just wouldn’t—let this get in the way of their relationship.

She only had two months left, and she wasn't going to spend them feeling sorry for herself.

When she felt emotionally level again, she got up and went back to her bedroom. Her body was still overly heated, still pulsing with arousal. She’d never in her life felt this way. She’d been aroused before, of course, although usually by something she read or by her own sexual fantasies. More and more, when she was around Paul, she found herself responding viscerally to his physical presence.

But she’d never felt like this—like she might actually erupt.

She closed her bedroom door and lay down on her bed, rolling over onto her stomach. Then she slipped one hand under the waistband of her pajamas. She rubbed herself in tight circles over the fabric of her panties, feeling the tension clench in her body almost immediately.

She kept her eye on the door, although she was sure Paul wouldn’t walk in tonight the way he had while she’d been doing this in Egypt. She still remembered her shock and embarrassment, although fortunately he'd just thought she had a fever.

Her breathing quickened as her fingers worked and she thought about Paul, about how he’d been kissing her, holding her, touching her.

She came with a muffled groan, panting hotly against the pillow and still rubbing herself urgently, trying to feel all of the pleasure she could.

When her body finally relaxed, she stayed sprawled out on her stomach for a long time.

Eventually, though, she felt basically normal again, and she managed to get up, wash her hands and face, brush her teeth, and go to the bathroom. It was time for bed, and she was really tired. But she wasn’t really sleepy.

She tried to read some Shakespeare in bed. Then she put Shakespeare away and tried to watch TV. She just couldn’t focus on anything.

She pulled out her list. It was half done now but, once the trial was over, she would need to start working on the remainder of the items on her list. She tried to decide what she should do next. Finally, she put the list away too and just lay on her bed, thinking about Paul.

Nothing really had changed. He’d still had an agonizing day. He still needed her, and he was lying in the dark by himself.

Emily’s heart ached for him. Finally, at about midnight, she couldn’t stand it anymore.

Maybe she would be rejected again, but she’d passed the point of caring. She only had two more months. She was going to do what she thought was right while she could.

So she walked barefoot through the hall of the apartment and stood in front of the door to the master bedroom. Her heart racing wildly, she tapped on it lightly.

“Yes?” Paul called out immediately. He obviously hadn’t been asleep.

She opened the door and stepped in. The lights were off, and the room was lit only by the flickering light of the television.

Paul had been stretched out on his bed, staring at the television screen. When he saw her, he sat up with a jerk. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She walked over to stand next to his bed. Swallowed hard. “I just…I didn’t want to be alone. Is it all right if I stay in here with you tonight?”

Paul stared at her. He wore what he always wore to bed—just a pair of soft pajama pants.

“Just to sleep,” she added, in case he’d misunderstood. She wasn't trying to jump him. She just wanted to share his bed.

She shook with anxiety and felt like this person couldn’t really be her. She couldn’t believe she’d just asked Paul Marino if she could sleep with him tonight.

“Of course,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Of course you can.”

With a thick exhale, Emily crawled into the king-sized bed beside him, feeling like she might collapse with relief. “Thank you,” she murmured, pulling the covers up over her and rolling onto her side to face him. She really wanted to snuggle up next to him, but she thought that might be pushing it, after what had happened between them earlier.

Paul rolled onto his side to face her too. He reached out to stroke a few strands of hair off her face. His touch wasn’t intense and hungry now. Just gentle. “Are you all right, Emily?”

She nodded and smiled at him. “I’m fine. I really am. I just felt kind of…lonely.” She didn’t say it, but she was pretty sure he’d been feeling lonely too. “Are you all right?”

“I am. I’m fine. It’s just been a really long day.” He smiled at her, almost poignantly, and then rolled over onto his back. He closed his eyes, as if he were relaxing at last.

Then he murmured one more thing, low words she barely heard, words that caused the tightness in her chest to release at last. “I’m glad you’re here.”

EIGHT

“You understand that we have no direct means of measuring the progress of the virus, since we don’t even know what it is,” Dr. Franklin said, looking at Emily gravely from across his large desk. “So all I can do is measure secondary effects and compare them to your previous tests.”

Paul felt tense and like his stomach was twisting, but he wasn’t exactly sure why.  He and Emily were in Dr. Franklin’s office for an update on her prognosis, but it wasn’t likely anything said today could surprise them.

Emily shifted slightly in her chair. She was dressed more casually today than she’d been for most of the week, during which she’d been attending the trial hearings. Today, she wore a pair of well-worn jeans and a brown velvet jacket, and her hair was hanging down around her shoulders. Paul thought she looked beautiful but a little pale, and he knew she was as tense as he was about this visit.

She said, “Yes. I know that. Are things…progressing as you expected?”

Dr. Franklin leaned back in his chair and gave her a little smile. “It’s actually better than I originally expected. It’s definitely progressing, but not as quickly as I’d anticipated.”

Paul leaned forward. “So she has longer than you thought?”

“If it continues at the rate it has progressed for the last month, then, yes, I would guess she may have as long as three more months.” Dr. Franklin looked from Paul to Emily. “There are no guarantees, of course, but perhaps you have a little more time than I’d originally predicted.”

Paul turned his head and met Emily’s gaze. An extra month. An extra month she might be alive. It was a lot. It gave his investigators more time to find out whether the virus came from his father’s research facility. His heart accelerated with something like hope.

“That’s good,” Emily said, a little haltingly. She was looking at Paul, as if she were waiting for his reaction. “I guess.”

“Of course, it’s good.” He reached over and squeezed her arm. “It’s a month we hadn’t expected to have.”

She smiled at him, the expression growing slowly on her face and momentarily taking his breath away. “Yeah.”

Dr. Franklin cleared his throat, breaking into their shared gaze. “Now, would you still prefer not to pursue any courses of treatment for the virus?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t want to spend my last days in the hospital, subjected to a bunch of experiments that won’t work.”

“We don’t want to pursue blind guesses—treatments that are basically shots in the dark,” Paul added, cutting his eyes from Emily to Dr. Franklin. “But if you come up with a treatment for which there is some evidence that it might be effective, we would want to try that.” He gave Emily a questioning look. “Wouldn’t we?”

Her brow lowered, and she looked a little confused. “Maybe. I guess so. But there isn’t any treatment like that, is there? No one’s had this virus before except my aunt.”

Paul looked back at Dr. Franklin, who shook his head. “All I have right now to offer you are blind guesses, the most obvious of which we already tried on Mrs. Marino’s aunt with no success. But I’m still doing research. It may be that this virus or something similar has been diagnosed before but hasn’t been written about in the literature.”

“You’ll keep looking?” Paul prompted, trying to convey through his level gaze how significant his expectations were for the doctor.

“Of course, Mr. Marino. Your wife’s case is my top priority. I can offer you only a very slim hope, but I suppose that is better than nothing.”

“It is.” Paul glanced back over at Emily, whom he discovered was looking at him strangely.

He didn’t understand the puzzled expression on her face. Maybe she thought he was being too presumptuous in this discussion with the doctor. Maybe she thought he should sit back and let her handle the questions. She’d told him this morning that he didn’t even need to come to the appointment with her.

But he was her husband, and there were things he wanted to know that she might not ask.

“Do you think there will be any way we can predict when or how often she’ll come down with the fevers?” he asked.

Dr. Franklin shook his head slowly. “You both should try to pay attention and keep track of symptoms, particularly from the day preceding her fevers. But, at least in her aunt’s case, there seemed to be no regular cycle or timeline. I have to admit to having no idea why the fevers come when they come.”

“But they’ll get worse?” Emily asked softly.

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Franklin replied. “I’m afraid they will.”

Paul hated the thought of it. The two fevers he’d been through with her so far had been appalling enough. He couldn’t imagine how much she’d suffer with fevers that went up higher and lasted longer.

When he shifted his eyes over to Emily, he saw she still looked pale and was licking her lips a little nervously.  Something twisted in his chest, in his stomach.

He couldn’t let Emily suffer that way. There had to be something he could do.

He would call his investigator when they got back to the apartment and get an update on their progress.

It wasn’t much, but it was all he had.

* * *

Paul’s phone rang as they were leaving the medical center. He glanced down at the caller ID, and when he saw who was calling, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to pick it up.

Emily stopped too, her body stiffening and her eyes wide in expectation as he had the brief phone conversation.

“Already?” she asked when he hung up.

Paul nodded, his heart pounding nervously again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “The jury has a verdict.” The trial had wrapped up late yesterday, so the jury had only been deliberating for a couple of hours this morning.

Emily took his arm as they walked toward the waiting car. He wasn’t even sure if she was aware of the gesture or not, but he didn't try to pull away.

They didn’t say much on the drive over to the courthouse. Paul couldn’t focus on anything except managing his nerves and emotional turmoil. He hoped—he really hoped—that the verdict would give him some sort of closure so he could start to move on with his life.

He wasn’t sure if Emily was going through similar psychological gymnastics, or if she was just responsive to his mood, but she didn’t try to make idle conversation or get him to bare his soul. Which was good. He didn’t want to shut her out completely, but he just couldn’t talk to anyone right now.

They didn’t talk as they walked into the courthouse and went through the normal security routine. And they didn’t talk as they made their way into the courtroom and took their seats just behind the prosecution table.

Paul was so tense he was having trouble not conveying it in his stance and expression. He tried to talk himself down—telling himself that, no matter what happened with this verdict, he would still have options. His whole future wouldn’t be decided in this moment.

It was his father’s life. Not his.

But he was still having trouble breathing evenly, and it felt like his skin had broken out in a cold sweat.

Emily sat very close to him, much closer than she normally sat. Thinking she must be anxious too, he adjusted so that his arm rested on the back of the seat behind her, loosely draped around her shoulders.

She looked up at him and smiled, a little wobbly. She looked as pale as he felt, and she was having trouble sitting still.

The reading of the verdict was not a closed hearing, so the courtroom was getting crowded. Paul, however, was barely aware of the people filing in behind him, chatting or laughing as if the outcome here had no real relevance on their lives.

It didn’t, of course. The lives of very few people would change because of what the jury pronounced as their verdict.

But Paul’s might.

He noticed that Emily’s hands were twisting nervously in her lap. Since his right arm was around her shoulders, he reached over with his left hand to cover both of hers.

She gripped his hand immediately. The fingers of one of her hands twined through his, and the other curved around his from the outside.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking forward to where the judge would be sitting in a moment. Paul still felt awkward holding hands with her, with anyone. He would do it if she needed him to, but it still left him feeling decidedly out of his element. So he was relieved that she wasn’t looking at him or trying to talk to him now. It made it easier somehow.

He glanced at his watch. It shouldn’t be very long now.

Emily had started fidgeting with his wedding band as if she just couldn’t keep her hands still.

He wished he could make her feel better, but it was all he could do to remain composed himself.

Paul closed his eyes and practiced breathing.

He was about to hear whether or not his father was found guilty of crimes that would put him in prison for life.

And his wife was dying.

Just then, Vincent Marino walked into the courtroom with his defense team, and Hathaway and his assistant came in to sit at the opposite table.

His father didn’t meet Paul’s eyes. He hadn’t really looked at him once, hadn’t acknowledged his son even existed. Not even when Paul was sitting in the witness stand for hours. Not even when he'd had to admit the naked, devastating truth that he still wanted his father’s love.

The judge and the jury came into the courtroom, and everyone fell silent.

The world seemed to slow down into a surreal blur as the opening rituals were performed, the verdict was handed to the judge to read silently, and then the paper was handed back to be read out loud.

Still in the slow blur, Paul saw his father and the defense team stand up to hear the verdict.

His pulse raced, but he was barely aware of it. His heart seemed to have slowed down like the rest of the world. Emily was squeezing his hand so tightly he thought he might lose circulation in his fingers, but he couldn’t process that very much either. The thirty seconds might have lasted thirty minutes, and Paul could do nothing but sit in his seat like a statue and wait.

Then he heard, “Guilty,” and the world started moving again.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He heard Emily exhale thickly too. Her body drooped as if she’d suddenly let go of all her tension. Paul just blinked slowly.

He sat in place, his arm still around Emily, his fingers still twined with hers. He heard himself breathing—and it was too loud, too deep. For a moment, his vision blurred over.

Emily adjusted in her seat, gently slipping her hand out of his grip. “This is what we wanted,” she murmured, very softly, so only he could hear, “Isn’t it?”

He gave a slight nod. It was what he’d wanted. It was a good outcome. The best outcome he could hope for out of none that were perfect.

It meant his father—a man who had never admitted defeat, who had never been cowed—would go to prison.

And Paul might never see him again.

She slid a hand up to his shoulder. Then to the back of his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked, almost just breathing the words. The judge was trying to silence the outburst of noise in the room by banging her gavel.

Paul nodded again, holding Emily’s anxious gaze. He tried to smile at her, if only to ease her concern.

She didn’t press the question, which was good since he wasn’t sure he was capable of talking coherently. They listened as the judge had his father remanded until the sentencing hearing and the trial was dismissed.

They stayed in place as Vincent Marino stood up to be escorted out of the room.

He turned around, and his eyes landed unerringly on where Emily and Paul were seated. His gaze was cool and almost amused as he made an elegant gesture with one hand—a strange, two-fingered salute.

That was aimed at Emily, who stiffened but met his gaze evenly.

Then, for the first time, Vincent’s gaze slid over to Paul.

The two men stared at each other for a long stretch of time, and Paul had no idea how to read his father’s expression.

Then Vincent inclined his head slightly, almost a nod. The gesture made Paul’s heart lurch up into his throat.

Vincent turned then and was led out of the room. He didn’t look back once.

Paul just sat in his seat, staring at his father’s retreating back.

The courtroom was starting to empty when Emily finally tugged on his arm. “We should go, Paul,” she said gently. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

That night, at about midnight, Paul lay in the dark in his bedroom, wondering if Emily was going to sleep with him tonight.

She’d knocked on his door every night since the night he’d testified on the stand and after he’d let his desire and need take control of his actions on the couch with Emily. He could still get hard just thinking about how good, how sweet, how responsive she’d felt in his arms.

But he tried not to think about it. He’d already rubbed one out in the shower earlier, which he’d learned was the only safe way to make it through a night with Emily in his bed. If he started thinking about their heated embrace on the couch, he’d have to get up and take another shower. Two nights ago, he’d had to do that, and he’d barely dried off from his second round under the spray when Emily had knocked softly on his door to come in.

Even if her presence left him physically frustrated and unsatisfied, he still waited for her every evening, not really able to relax and sleep without her.

He wasn’t sure she was going to join him tonight. An hour ago, he’d heard her talking on the phone to Chris in the media room. Maybe she would need privacy afterwards. Maybe she wouldn’t want to sleep in his bed, since Chris was obviously not happy about their marriage. Maybe she would want the space to think about the guy she’d always had a crush on.

A guy who wasn’t Paul.

He tried not to brood about it. Told himself it was a good thing, since it would give him a safer emotional distance from Emily. He’d gone too far as it was.

There was no future with Emily that wasn’t going to rip him apart. Even if she miraculously didn’t die, he’d have to let her go so she could live the life she’d always wanted. If she pulled back from him now, it would probably hurt less than it would later.

Midnight came and went. Twelve-thirty came and went. Paul decided she wasn’t going to come to him tonight.

He rolled over a few times in the bed, trying to get comfortable. Trying not to think about his father. Trying not to feel completely alone.

Some things wouldn’t change. He’d lived his life alone—with only a few moments when he’d believed he had someone to share it with. A mother. A lover. A friend. None of them lasted.

He wanted Emily with him now, but she wasn’t really his, no matter how much it felt like she was.

It was almost one in the morning, and he wasn’t even close to going to sleep when he was surprised by a little tap on his door.

“Come in,” he called out, his heartbeat quickening.

Emily peeked in. “Are you asleep?”

“No. I’m still awake. Come on in.”

Since his eyes were already adjusted to the dark, he could see her fairly clearly as she shut the bedroom door and walked over to his bed. She wore a dark-colored tank top with pajama shorts of the same color. Her hair was tousled around her face, and she smiled at him as she crawled under the covers beside him. “I’m sorry it’s so late. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I wasn’t asleep yet. Everything all right with Chris?”

“I guess so,” she said with a sigh, rolling onto her side so she was facing him. “As good as they can be. I just…”

“You just what?” Paul was on his side too, and he was doing his best to force down his instinctive reaction.

“I just don’t want to die when things aren’t good with him.”

Paul swallowed. “Of course not. You should do what you can to clear things up with him.”

“Yeah. I’ll do what I can, but he doesn’t like it when I defend you.”

“You don’t have to defend me,” Paul said, very slowly.

Even in the dark, Emily’s expression was transparently outraged. “Of course, I have to defend you! Damn it, Paul, whose side do you think I’m on?”

He just stared at her.

Emily’s face changed as she gazed at him. “Oh, Paul, did you really think…” She scooted over and nestled against his side with one arm draped over his belly, which was evidently her favorite position. “Of course I’m on your side,” she breathed, pressing a little kiss on his chest.

He tightened one arm around her and used his other hand to stroke her hair. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t feel capable of saying anything.

His heart was still beating too fast, but he tried to slow his breathing, tried to relax his body. The week and a half of the trial had taken too much out of him, and if he didn’t sleep he was just going to drop.

He thought about his father. And, for once, it didn’t hurt so much he couldn’t breathe. Maybe he could get some sort of closure.  Maybe he could somehow move on. Maybe his father didn’t have to haunt his steps for the rest of his life.

At least there was hope.

Emily must have been exhausted too, since she was asleep in less than ten minutes. She still clung to him in her sleep, and her warm presence and slow, steady breathing helped him to relax too.

She was dying, but she had an extra month that they hadn't known she had. Maybe there was a cure for her.

At least there was hope.

Paul didn’t know how he would have gotten through this trial without her.

Then he had one more thought before he fell into unbroken sleep.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been on his side.

***

Paul woke up early the following morning.

He immediately knew something was strange—maybe wrong—although it took him a minute to figure out what it was.

He finally realized that Emily wasn’t draped all over him the way she normally was when he woke up. Paul's body felt cool, and none of his limbs had lost circulation. When he turned his head, he saw that she was huddled up on the opposite side of the bed, facing away from him.

Her position and lack of cuddling was so unusual that he thought initially she might have a fever, so he reached across the bed and gently turned her over onto her back. She was asleep, and she moaned softly at his disruption of her slumbers. She didn’t wake up, though. When he felt her forehead, she wasn’t unusually hot.

Relieved she wasn’t sick, Paul left her alone to sleep and went to work out for an hour. He’d been working out more than usual lately, since he had a lot of physical frustration to channel, and he worked himself particularly hard this morning. He was hot, sweaty, and tired when he returned to his bedroom an hour later to take a shower.

It wasn’t even six in the morning, and Emily was still sleeping—huddled up in a ball again on the edge of the bed.

Once he’d showered and dressed, Paul got some coffee and went into his office to work. He had a mountain of email to get through, since he’d gotten behind because of the trial.

While normally that would be considered a good excuse, he knew he was still in a probationary period with the board, and he wasn’t going to ask or expect any sort of leniency because of his personal situation.

He was so absorbed in clearing his inbox that he lost track of time. When the phone rang, he glanced at the clock and was surprised that it was already after ten in the morning.

As he reached over to pick it up, he wondered when Emily had gotten up and why she hadn’t stopped by to say good-morning to him.

“Mr. Marino,” a voice greeted on the other end of the line, “It’s Dr. Franklin calling. I hope it’s not too early for a Saturday.”

“No, of course not. Is everything all right?” For a moment, he felt a flare of hope. Maybe Dr. Franklin had a potential treatment for Emily. Why else would he be calling the morning after they’d had an office visit with him?

“Yes, yes, everything is fine. I just wanted to check in about one of your wife’s concerns yesterday.”

“I see,” Paul said, although he didn’t really see at all. The flicker of hope was extinguished, and he grew worried instead.

“She didn’t bring it up as we were talking, but I guess Mrs. Marino had mentioned to my nurse during the physical exam that her menstrual cycle had stopped a month or two ago. She was asking if that was normal with this kind of virus.”

“Oh, yes,” Paul said automatically, pretending he knew what the doctor was talking about. He didn’t know about it. Since Dr. Franklin obviously assumed he did, he added, “Is it normal?”

“It’s difficult to say what’s normal in a case as rare as this, but I will say that an illness such as this affects the body so fundamentally that I’m not surprised she stopped menstruating.  It’s probably a hormonal response to the progress of the virus in her body. I think it’s likely she'll be infertile for the remainder of her life, unless we find a cure for the disease.”

“I see,” Paul said, shifting in his desk chair.

“I trust this isn’t…” For once, Dr. Franklin faltered with his words, “I trust this isn’t a disappointment. I know you and your wife are recently married and haven’t had the chance to have children, but…”

“But she wouldn’t live long enough anyway,” Paul finished for him. “Yes, naturally we weren’t considering having children.”

For some reason—for absolutely no good reason—he felt a pang in his chest as he spoke the words. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have a future with Emily, to have a baby with her. He snuffed the thought as soon as it crossed his mind, however, since such idle imaginings were dangerous and futile.

“Yes. Anyway, I hope you’ll tell her not to worry about it. Nothing has changed physically, so it’s likely a hormonal response to the virus.”

“I’ll tell her. Thank you.”

When Paul hung up the phone, he sat for a few minutes and tried to talk himself down from being deeply annoyed with Emily for not telling him a possibly important detail of her health situation. He didn’t know how she would feel about the fact that her reproductive system was shutting down, a first step in the decline of her whole body. It might be hard for her to hear, though, and it wouldn’t help if he were bristling with indignation over being left out of this information.

When he decided he was suitably under control, he went to find her. He was very surprised to discover that she wasn’t yet out of bed. Normally, she would have been up for at least an hour or two by now.

She could be really tired. His father’s trial had taken a lot out of her, and she hadn’t gotten to bed until after one the night before. He fixed her a cup of coffee and carried it into his bedroom.

She was still curled up under the covers, but she opened her eyes halfway when he approached the bed with the cup of coffee. She didn’t smile, though, which was unusual.

“Good morning,” he said, putting the coffee down on the nightstand on her side of the bed. “Are you feeling all right?” He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and reached to feel her forehead again.

She grumbled and rolled away from him, but he’d felt her enough to be assured she didn’t have a fever.

“I just got a call from Dr. Franklin,” Paul said. He knew she was awake, and she seemed to be in a bad mood. However, he also knew she wouldn’t appreciate his holding onto any information he had about her. “Do you want to hear about it now?”

She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him through heavy eyelids. Her hair was a tangled mess around her face, and her lips were curved down in an uncharacteristic droop. “What did he say?”

“He said you’d asked the nurse about your period stopping, and he wanted to let you know that wasn’t an unusual hormonal response to an illness like yours. You probably won’t be fertile again.”

“Oh.” She stared at him blankly. “Why did he talk to you and not me?”

Paul lifted his eyebrows. “Because I was the one who answered the phone, and you’d signed the form that allowed him to share with me your medical—”

“Fine, fine,” Emily interrupted. “It’s no big deal.” She rolled back over onto her side, facing away from him. “It’s not like I can ever have a baby now anyway. I might as well not have to mess with cramps and PMS.”

“Emily?” Paul asked, feeling irrationally annoyed again that she seemed to be closing him out for no reason. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

She made a muffled grunt that he couldn’t identify as any specific words.

“Emily?”

“I just didn’t,” she mumbled. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

“No, we don’t.” Paul stood up and stared down at her messy hair and stiff back. He felt hurt and confused and almost snubbed by her obvious desire to get rid of him. She’d never acted like this with him before.

But she’d just woken up, and that was hardly the ideal circumstance to have a serious conversation. So he said, “We can talk later.”

She made another wordless sound but didn’t turn over as he left the bedroom.

Feeling annoyed and restless, he went back to work and managed to distract himself for another hour and a half.

His mind kept straying to Emily, however, wondering what was going on in her mind and if she was really all right.

He finally got up to go talk to her again.

He was genuinely worried when he found her still in bed. It was almost noon now. Not once had he known her to sleep so late. The coffee he’d brought in earlier was sitting cold and untouched on the nightstand.

“Emily?” he asked, not really caring if he was waking her up now. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

She shifted under the covers and turned to glare at him over her shoulder. “I’m sleeping.”

“It’s almost noon. You don’t sleep this late.”

“I do today.”

Something was definitely wrong. He walked around to his side of the bed so he could see her face. Her eyes were shut, and her hair was hanging over her cheek. “Emily,” he said, an edge of warning in his tone. “You have to tell me if you’re getting sick.”

“I’m not sick.” She scowled with transparent impatience before she rolled over onto her other side, showing him her back again.

Paul sighed in frustration, but he was too worried now to be genuinely angry. “Then why aren’t you getting up?”

“What’s the point?” she muttered, almost too muffled for him to register the words.

He did hear them, though, and he suddenly understood them.

If all of this had happened to him, he would have fallen into a depressed (and probably drunken) stupor weeks ago. Emily wasn’t him. She was bright and strong and resilient, and she’d handled tragedy better than he could have dreamed of doing. But she was still human, and yesterday one of the biggest tasks she’d had left to accomplish had been completed.

Since he was tired of standing next to the bed, he got into it, propping himself against the pillows in the middle so Emily couldn’t get very far away from him. “My dad’s trial wasn’t the only reason you have to get out of bed, Emily.”

She turned to peer at him over her shoulder but then frowned. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me. I just want to sleep in.”

“You’ve already slept in. It’s almost lunchtime. Now it’s time to get up.” He kept the surge of sympathy out of his voice—since he knew she’d resent it—so he sounded bland and matter-of-fact.

“Why exactly?”

“There are things to do, and you have a husband who’s getting bored trying to amuse himself.”

She snorted, but she did roll over onto her back, instead of huddling away from him, so that was improvement. “I don’t have anything I need to do today.”

“Then we’ll find something to do. Your birthday is next week. We can start making plans. Do you have any thoughts about what you'd like to do?”

“Nothing,” she mumbled, glancing away from him. “What’s the point? Nothing is going to change.”

“What does that mean? It’s a birthday whether things change or not. Tell me what you’d like to do, and we’ll do it.”

“It’s not like I can have a party or anything.” She sighed and stared at a blank spot across the room. She didn’t seem to be whining as much as reflecting poignantly.

“Of course, you can. You have a lot of friends in the neighborhood. Who do you want there? Just tell me who you want, and I’ll make sure they come.”

Emily gave a thick exhale and a little shrug. “I don’t know. It would be weird to have all my friends hanging around me waiting for me to die.”

“I don’t think that’s why they’d be there, but we can do something alone, if you’d rather.”

She didn’t answer immediately. She just stared down at her hands, where she was idly twisting her emerald and diamond engagement ring.

“Do you have any ideas about what you want for your birthday?” he asked, when she still didn’t respond.

“I don’t know.”

“We can figure it out later. But you still need to get out of bed.”

She rolled her eyes at him, which he thought was an improvement, since he’d rather see her looking annoyed than depressed.

“You have an extra month, according to Dr. Franklin, remember?” Paul said. “That’s good news.”

“Yeah, an extra month to suffer through fevers. Yay me.”

Paul’s chest twisted painfully. “You won’t be sick the whole time. You feel fine today, right? So why waste it?”

Her blue eyes darted up at him, almost questioningly, before they returned to stare at her ring.

“Emily?” he asked softly, feeling a sudden cold wave as he thought about why she was staring that way at her rings. “Is there anything else bothering you? You’re happy…you’re happy with our marriage, aren’t you?”

It had meant so much to Paul last night that she’d said she was on his side, and he believed she’d meant it. She’d never been in love with him, though. Maybe, now that she had an extra month to live, she was tired of being shackled to such a mess of a man.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.” His tone sounded a little forced to his own ears, but he kept his expression as natural as possible. “You know, if you decide you want out, all you need to do is—”

Emily made a choked noise of outrage. “I don’t want out of the marriage. What the hell are you talking about?”

Her grumpiness was more comforting than any kind words would have been. The tension in his chest eased. “I was just checking. So you’re satisfied with everything about our marriage?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, with a strange twist of her mouth, “It’s good. I just…”

Paul’s breath hitched. “You just want?”

She opened her mouth as if she would answer, but then she just shook her head and looked away.

“Emily, you have to tell me.” He reached out and took her by the shoulders. Made her look at him. “If something in our marriage isn’t working for you, you have to tell me what it is so I can fix it.”

Her expression changed. Grew soft. She gazed up at him with obvious affection. “It’s nothing for you to fix, Paul. You don’t have to fix anything. You’ve been a better husband to me than I could ever have imagined. There’s nothing you need to fix.”

He wanted to lean into the words, let them wash over him, but he wasn’t sure if he could really believe them. It had felt like she had something to say. Something he needed to know. He pushed the thought aside for now, since he still needed to get Emily out of bed.

"All right. If it's not the marriage, then tell me what's wrong," he said.

Emily slumped down again and shook her head.

"Were you upset about what Dr. Franklin said this morning?"

She gave a half-shrug. "Not really. I mean, it's kind of depressing, but obviously I wasn't going to have a baby anyway." She sighed and darted a glance over to him. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it. I just…"

"You just what?"

"It's just embarrassing," she admitted, making a pained face, "That my body isn't working the way it's supposed. That nothing is working. I didn't want you to treat me like I was…like I was…"

"Like you were what?"

"Broken."

Paul made a rough sound in his throat and wrapped an arm around her to pull him against her. "Emily, you're not broken. You're just sick. It's not going to change how I treat you." He wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't entirely sure if the words were true. The sicker she became, the more he would want to protect her, shelter her, make her better.

It wasn't right—it was just wrong—that there was virtually nothing he could do.

She leaned against him. She wasn't crying. She just looked so, so tired. She didn't say anything for a long time.

Then she finally admitted in a small voice, "I don't want to die, Paul."

He made another husky noise and wrapped both arms around her, holding her tightly, too tightly. "I know. I know."

There wasn't anything else he could say. He was still hoping he could find a way to save her, but she might be angry if she found out he was trying.

Part of him wanted to give her a day to stay in bed and mope. She deserved it. She had more reason than he'd ever had, and he'd done plenty of brooding in his life. But it just didn't feel like Emily.

“What about your list?” he suggested, “I know the trial has distracted us from it, but you’ve only gotten halfway through. We need to start working on the rest of it.”

“Oh. I guess so. Yeah.”

“Maybe we can get something on the list done today. That would be reason for you to get up.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything we could do today.”

“Let’s check. Where is it?”

She told him it was in the drawer of the nightstand in her room, so he went to get it. He handed it to her when he returned and got onto the bed beside her again as she unfolded it.

They both stared down at the worn paper. Seven of the items were neatly crossed out.

Paul smiled as he read a few of the remaining items on the list.

“Don’t laugh,” Emily warned him. She’d perked up a little and was already looking more like herself, with her eyes ironically amused. “I was twelve when I wrote this.”

“It’s a very good list,” he murmured, suppressing a smile with impressive composure. “We can get up to Prince Edward Island sometime soon. Do we really have to go camping, though?”

“That’s what’s on the list,” Emily said with a quirk of her mouth. “I’d been reading a lot of the Anne of Green Gables books and thought that Prince Edward Island must be the most beautiful place in the world. Camping was the way I thought I could commune with nature the most.”

“All right," Paul relented, cringing inwardly as he thought about how cool it might be there at night this time of year. "I'll work on the arrangements. Maybe we can do that after your birthday.”

She nodded as if she thought it was a good plan.

“What about this?” Paul suggested, pointing to one of the other lines on her list. “We could do the ice skating today.”

“Really?” she asked. “I thought you’d have to work all day to catch up.”

“I’ve already done most of what I needed to do while you were lazing about in bed. It shouldn’t be hard to get that one today.”

“It might be harder than you think. I’ve never ice skated before. I was going to try to practice some, before…But I never had the chance.”

“I can help you,” Paul said, pleased that she was cheering up. “You’ll pick it up quickly. But do we have to skate to that cheesy song?”

Emily actually snickered. “I was twelve. I saw a scene with that song in a TV movie, and I thought it was the most romantic thing ever.”

Paul gave a resigned sigh. “Fine. Ice-skating hand-in-hand to that insufferable power ballad it is.”

Emily laughed out loud, her lovely, uninhibited laugh that he hadn't heard in several days. Then she reached over and gave him a little hug. “You’re the best husband in the world!”

He wondered if she might really think that was true. “As long as you appreciate my sacrifice.”

* * *

Emily wasn’t a very good ice skater. And she wasn’t a very fast learner.

Paul didn’t really mind. He’d been ice-skating for years, since he’d played a lot of ice hockey when he was a teenager, and it wasn’t particularly painful to teach Emily.

But she was getting more and more frustrated by her clumsiness.

After about an hour, after she’d fallen yet again and Paul had hauled her up, she groaned. “Oh, forget it. I’m never going to make it all the way around without falling.”

“Sure you will. You’re just getting too uptight about it. Try to relax.”

She made a guttural sound in her throat and slanted him a malevolent glare.

He chuckled. “What was that for?”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is to hear someone who can skate like a pro telling me to just relax? Maybe you can just relax on cue, but I can’t.”

“Right,” he said, trying to hide a smile at her indignant face. “Sorry about that. Shall we try again?”

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and propelled herself into a slide. She made it several feet before her ankle wobbled dangerously.

Paul had been gliding next to her and was able to catch her with one arm around her waist before she took another tumble.

“Damn it!” Emily bit out. “Why can’t I do this? I’m usually good at things.” She watched in outrage as a boy and girl of about ten skated by them with smooth ease. Her cheeks were bright red, her hair was slipping out of her ponytail, and her eyes looked very blue above the blue sweater that zipped up the front in the light of the large indoor ice rink. Despite her grumpy expression, she looked scrumptious enough to eat.

“You’re doing fine. It’s not necessarily something you pick up in one day. Some people take lessons for weeks before they feel competent.”

“I don’t have weeks to take lessons,” she said, her expression relaxing into a frown.

“I know,” he said softly, feeling that pang in his chest that was distracting him more and more. “We’re doing fine. We’ve got all afternoon.”

He reached for her hand and gently pulled her into another glide.

It took another hour, but eventually she was steady enough on the skates to do what she wanted to do.

The rink had been playing popular music on the overhead speakers as an accompaniment to the free skate hours. But, when Paul was satisfied that Emily could make it around the rink without falling, he pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call.

In just a moment, the song that had been playing was cut off abruptly and the opening piano strains of a familiar power ballad filled the rink.

Emily had been resting and leaning against a rail, but she straightened up when she heard the familiar music begin.

Paul glided over so he was directly in front of her. Then he arched one eyebrow and extended his hand to her, his lips tightening slightly with irony he couldn’t suppress.

What had happened to his life in the last two months that ice skating hand-in-hand to a saccharine song was something he was willing to do?

Emily was grinning as she took his hand, her eyes sparkling with a matching irony. Then they started to skate.

The rink wasn’t very crowded at this time in the afternoon, and the other skaters didn’t get in their way.  Paul and Emily skated smoothly as the ballad grew in volume and intensity, with Emily clinging to his hand very tightly.

Paul would never admit it to anyone, but he actually enjoyed it. Just like that night when he’d driven her to Lake Collins for skinny-dipping, her transparent pleasure and excitement over something so simple was infectious. Although she still had to concentrate on skating, she was smiling radiantly, glowing, as they circled the rink.

This meant something to her—this fulfillment of a silly, childhood dream. She was brimming over with it, and she kept catching his eyes as if she wanted to share it with him. Paul couldn’t help but respond.

They’d made it twice around the rink when the song finally reached its climax. Emily slowed down a little and looked up at him. “Here comes the best part,” she murmured, speaking for the first time since the song began.

Then she sang the line along with the music, holding his eyes and the extended note as her voice faded out.

Paul laughed as the song ended, still holding her hand, feeling warm and amused and oddly touched.

Emily threw herself against him in a fierce hug. “Thank you, Paul,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. “It was wonderful!”

He hugged her back tightly, although he had to do some foot work to balance both himself and her on the ice.

There was a tear on Emily’s cheek as she pulled away, but she was still glowing with emotion. Unfortunately, she’d gotten distracted from keeping her balance and her ankles buckled dramatically as he released her.

She squealed as she started to fall, and Paul reached out instinctively to catch her, almost going down himself in the process.

“I've got you,” he said thickly, as he grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, the only way he could manage to keep them both upright. “I’ve got you.”

Emily had started to giggle as they scuffled into a stable position, and she was still giggling as she gazed up at his face. But, as he spoke the final words, her expression transformed from gleeful amusement to something even warmer, even softer.

Paul’s breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her, trapped by the sweetness, the fondness, the absolute trust on her face.

He couldn’t remember seeing anyone look at him that way before. Ever.

He had no idea what happened next, but they were suddenly kissing.

After the first light press of their lips, Paul felt a surge of hot feeling and possessiveness rise up inside him. Emily’s mouth was eager and willing, and she opened immediately to the advance of his tongue. He held onto her tightly, both of his arms wrapped around her, and his mind glazed over with pleasure and need as he felt her respond to his lips, his tongue, his deep hunger.

She made a little moan in the back of her throat that caused his body to clench in desire. She was clutching at his shirt, and Paul had never felt anyone so warm, so vibrant, so passionate, so alive, as Emily felt in his arms.

The sound of someone skating by them alerted him to the fact that they were in a very public place. And he shouldn’t be kissing Emily anyway.

He tore his mouth away and gasped as he stared down at her.

She was panting too and flushed deeply red. Her eyes lowered. Her hands were still fisted in his shirt.

Paul had no idea what to say. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sorry at all. He wanted to kiss her again. Right now. And he was afraid if he spoke, he would say something utterly stupid, prompted only by this surge of feeling—something like declaring his undying adoration or begging her to have sex with him.

“We should probably go,” he murmured thickly, since one of them had to say something.

She nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I’m going to fall down again in about two more seconds.”

They slid to the exit of the rink and then took their skates off and got ready to go. They didn’t say much as they did so. Emily kept slanting him questioning glances, as if she wanted to ask him what was going on. He would have been happy to tell her, but he didn’t know himself.

Emily had stopped in the bathroom before they left when a man came over to Paul. “Excuse me," the man said. "I think your girlfriend might have dropped this.” He extended a little pink glove to Paul. Paul recognized it as Emily's. It must have fallen out of the pocket of her sweater when they’d gotten off the rink.

Paul thanked him and accepted the glove. Then he heard him saying something else. Something foolish. And irrelevant. And entirely unnecessary. And certainly not anything a stranger needed to know.

But he said it anyway. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my wife.”

***

Paul leaned back in the desk chair in the library of his mother’s old house and stared as the light shine through the windows onto the parquet floor.

Emily had decided she didn’t want a big party for her birthday the following day, but she reluctantly admitted that she did want to see some of her old friends. So they’d driven out to the house that afternoon after Paul had gotten back from a few meetings in the office, and Emily was having dinner with Chris and his family right now.

Chris’s mother had made a point of inviting Paul to dinner tonight too, but he hadn’t accepted the invitation. He wasn’t too excited about seeing Laura, who might be joining her family tonight, and he didn’t want Emily to feel awkward with her old friend, since Paul knew Chris hadn’t wanted her to marry him.

So Emily was having dinner with them, and Paul was in the library trying to work.

He’d just hit send on his fourteen-trillionth email that day when someone knocked on the library door.

“Hi, Tim,” Paul said when he saw one of his bodyguard. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Tim said. “Ruth just arrived, and she wanted to unpack your luggage. She was wondering where to put everything.”

“The master bedroom.” Paul raised his eyebrows as he spoke, since his staff didn’t usually trouble him with unnecessary inquiries like this.

Tim shifted from foot to foot, looking strangely awkward for such a stoic, beefy man. “And Mrs. Marino’s luggage?” he prompted.

Enlightenment dawned as Paul realized what they needed to know. In the apartment, he and Emily had separate rooms, although she’d been sleeping in his bed every night for more than a week. Ruth obviously wasn’t sure whether her stuff should go in the master bedroom with Paul's or in one of the guest rooms.

Paul thought quickly. It would make the most sense to keep their normal arrangement, but the master bedroom in this house was in a wing of its own. The guestrooms were all on the opposite side of the big, sprawling house, which would mean Emily would have to traipse through long stretches of hallway to get to his room to sleep at night. Or she would have to just sleep in her own bed.

“You can put her stuff in my room too. Thanks.”

Tim nodded, not conveying any reaction on his impassive countenance. “Thank you, sir.” He left Paul alone in the library.

Paul told himself it was silly to go through the pretense of separate rooms if Emily continued wanting to sleep with him every night. They might as well just share the room here.

If, for some reason, she didn’t like that arrangement, they could move her stuff to one of the guest rooms before she went to bed tonight.

With that issue resolved in his mind, he tried to focus on work again. He’d managed to reply to and delete the last of his emails when he saw a new one come in. It was a daily update from one of the public relations people at Simone’s on what was being said online about the Marinos or the company.

This update was longer than normal, with half of the news stories and blog posts being about the conviction of Vincent Marino and the other half being about Paul’s marriage to a dying teenage girl.

Most of the stories about his marriage in the last few days had run a now notorious photograph of him nearly kissing Emily in the ice skating rink.

They hadn’t known anyone had recognized them and snapped the picture that afternoon until it appeared in the local paper the following day.

In the photograph, Paul’s arms were wrapped around Emily with a kind of intimate entitlement, and she was pressing herself against him, her face turned up for his kiss. His head was tilted down toward her, an expression on his face that had encouraged the stories of tragic romance that were going around the gossip circuits. An expression that made Paul extremely uncomfortable.

He wasn’t embarrassed exactly, but that expression seemed to reveal certain things about him that he’d prefer to not be shared with the world at large.

The photographer had caught him in the moment before the kiss, but he would rather the picture have been his kissing Emily for real. At least that would be physical. The photo as it was conveyed something more emotional than physical.

It made him cringe every time he looked at it, overwhelmed with an appalling feeling of being completely exposed.

Emily had taken the picture in stride, quipping that her only problem with it was that her ass looked way too big.

Her ass hadn’t looked too big. She’d looked curvy, feminine, and vulnerable somehow with her blonde ponytail and hands clutching at his shirt as she waited for his kiss.

If Emily wasn’t worried by the photo, then Paul shouldn’t be either. But it seemed ridiculous and offensive that so many people thought they had a right to know and discuss what he did with his own wife on a random Saturday afternoon.

He stopped scanning through the links in the email since they only served to annoy him more.

It took a while, but he managed to focus on his work again, and he was surprised by Emily’s voice from the doorway sometime later.

“You’re back early,” he said, smiling in response to her friendly greeting.

She frowned. “It’s almost ten.”

“Is it?” He glanced over at the panel of windows and was surprised to see that they were no longer lit by the sun. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yeah. It was pretty good.” She’d walked into the library. She was dressed casually in jeans and a black top and she looked a little tired, a little pale.

“Are you sure? They treated you well, didn’t they?”

She smiled at him, almost fondly. “Of course, they did. They’re good people. It was nice. It was really nice to see them again.” She paused and slanted him a diffident look. “You could have come too, you know.”

“I know. I had a lot of work to do.”

“Okay. But…”

“But what?”

“I just wanted to make sure you know that I would have been happy if you’d come with me.”

Paul wasn’t sure what to say in response, so he just said, “Thank you.”

“Did you get a lot of work done?”

“Yes. I’m mostly caught up now.”

She peered around, evidently taking note of the empty coffee cup on the desk. “Did you eat anything for dinner besides coffee?”

Paul rubbed a hand through his hair and tried to remember. “I guess so. I must have had something.”

Emily rolled her eyes but didn’t pursue the matter.  “Well, I’m kind of tired. I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.”

“Okay.” Then realizing he’d better explain their sleeping situation, he added casually, “I had them put your stuff in the master bedroom, if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.” She exhaled visibly. “It’s kind of strange to be back in the neighborhood, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, gazing around the familiar room and trying to feel like he was at home here again. He’d been raised in this house.

“It seems like ages ago now,” she added.

It did seem like ages ago—endless, aching miles. “It hasn’t really been that long.”

“Yeah. I guess.” She gave him a tired smile and turned to leave. “Don’t work too late.”

Paul wasn’t planning to work very late, and he hurried through the rest of the things he needed to finish this evening.

About ten minutes later, someone brought up a sandwich for him, explaining that Mrs. Marino had made it clear that he was supposed to eat it since he hadn’t had dinner.

So he ate the sandwich as he finished up.

* * *

Emily was still in the bath when he came into the bedroom almost an hour later. She’d either taken a particularly long soak, or she hadn’t started immediately after she’d left him.

It wasn’t even eleven yet, but Paul was feeling tired and decided that going to bed a little early wasn’t a bad idea.

He looked around the bedroom. The large, four-poster bed was beautifully made up with elegant bedding. There was a Renaissance tapestry on one wall, and a huge, Edwardian, gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall above the dresser.

He took off his shoes, socks and belt and glanced over at the closed door that led into the connecting bathroom. When Emily came out, he would need to take a shower and not just because he’d had a long day.

It was getting harder and harder for him to keep his feelings for and responses to her under control. Telling himself rational truths about her age, her illness, and the shortness of their marriage didn’t seem to work like it used to. He used to have strong defenses against the temptation she posed to him, but his defenses were getting more and more battered.

It felt like Emily was his.

And Paul wanted to make her his all the way.

He’d reached behind his back to grab a fistful of his t-shirt to pull it off when Emily came out of the bathroom.

“Hey,” she said, “Did you eat?”

“I ate. I didn’t dare risk your wrath otherwise.” He dropped his arm and turned around to look at her as he spoke with a teasing quirk of his mouth.

She was laughing softly at his comment, and her sandy hair was hanging in pretty waves around her shoulders, but she wasn’t wearing any of her normal pajamas.

She wore a little nightgown. It was simple and casual—made of gray cotton knit with thin straps. Its only ornamentation was a slim ribbon that tied just under her breasts, but the simple silhouette flattered her small, lush figure, and the flutter of the fabric around her thighs made him gulp.

There was no way to mistake the gown for an attempt to be seductive or tempting. It was just as casual as most of the other nightwear she wore.

But it worked on Paul anyway. His body immediately tightened at the sight of her, and he felt an almost painful tug of desire at his groin.

Afraid she would recognize his reaction, he turned around to face the dresser. He took off his watch and set it down, mostly for something to do.

“I’m not really very wrathful, you know,” she said, responding to the earlier comment he’d almost forgotten. She obviously had no idea how absolutely irresistible he was finding her at the moment. “At least, as long as you do what you’re supposed to do.”

He gave a huff of amusement, since he knew that was the appropriate response. He was having a world of trouble not leering at her reflection in the wall mirror.

“Sorry I took so long in the bathroom,” she said. “Were you waiting long?”

“No.” His voice was too hoarse, but he couldn’t seem to clear it. “I just got up here.” To give credence to his words, he grabbed the back of his shirt again and this time actually pulled it off over his head. He opened a drawer to find a pair of pajama pants to wear to bed.

Emily’s breath hitched audibly. “Oh, Paul,” she murmured, the words almost a caress.

He looked at her over his shoulder in confusion before he remembered it was safer not to look at her at the moment.

“Your back,” she explained, obviously reading his puzzled expression. She walked over until she was standing behind him. “I’d forgotten how awful those scars are.”

He swallowed and looked down into his drawer again. “You see me without a shirt every night.”

“But you’re always in bed already, and it’s dark.” She reached out and lightly touched his shoulder, tracing the line of what he knew was a scar.

He hated those scars on his back. They reminded him of his father, and he knew he’d have them for life. “Probably better not to spend much time staring at them,” he muttered, self-conscious about Emily’s eyes on his mangled back.

In general, his body was nothing to sneer at, and he’d been working out a lot lately so his muscle development was even better than normal. But naturally Emily would be diverted to the ugliest part of his anatomy.

Emily gently stroked another scar, her fingertips light, soft, triggering nerve endings that made Paul’s body tighten with even more carnal interest.

He was about to pull away. It was like the last time she saw his scars in New York—his physical response mingling with his emotional response to her deep sympathy and then leading to the utter undoing of his control. He just couldn’t risk it. Not when they were sharing a room, sharing a bed. Not when she was looking like that.

But Emily was still caressing his back, gliding her fingers over the sensitive skin and scar tissue, arousing him deeply. His partial erection hardened so quickly it hurt. “I’m so sorry he did this to you, Paul. I can’t stand that he did this to you.”

Paul lowered his head, closed his eyes, clenched his hands around the edge of the drawer as a last ditch effort to maintain control. He wanted her compassion, her understanding, her tenderness—as much as he wanted her body.

And the fact that all of that—all of her—was just behind him, reaching out, caressing him, was almost more than he could resist.

His arousal throbbed painfully in his trousers, and he felt his face break out in a sweat.

He was actually shaking with the restraint it took for him to hold himself back from grabbing her, kissing her, carrying her over to their bed so he could slake his need in her at last.

“Emily,” he said, his voice noticeably thick. “Emily, please don’t.”

Her hand dropped. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t move, couldn’t let go of the drawer, or he would let go completely. He felt her eyes on him intently. She might be inexperienced, but she wasn’t a fool. He didn’t think it was possible for him to hide his response from her.

Not this time.

“Paul?” she breathed, stepping around so she could see his face. Her eyes scanned his face and then darted down below his chest to the obvious bulge in his pants. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he managed to say.

“I didn’t…” Her voice faltered. Her eyes were lowered now, and her cheeks were very pink. “I didn’t think you were…I didn’t think you thought about me that way.”

He swallowed. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable with him. She might be hesitant around him, might not want to sleep in his bed. But what the hell else could he say in response to her comment, when the truth was more than obvious. “I do.”

“I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” he said, finally letting go of the drawer and rubbing his face in an attempt to pull it together. “It’s an involuntary response. But it’s probably better you not…you not touch me like that.”

“Oh.”

He was too embarrassed and too worried about her reaction and his lack of control to study her expression. He just grabbed a pair of pajama pants. “I’m going to take a shower. There’s an easy way to take care of it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Paul hurried into the bathroom before he changed his mind and gave into his lesser instincts.

Emily was in bed when he came back out of the bathroom, his body clean and relaxed. He turned out the light and climbed in beside her. He knew she was awake and looking at him in the dark.

“I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” he said, pleased that his voice was casual and controlled, “It’s really not a big deal.”

“Okay,” she said, “Should I…”

“Should you what?”

“Should I not sleep all over you at night? I didn’t realize that—”

“It’s fine. Nothing has changed. You can do everything you’ve done before. I’ll tell you if I need you to stop.” To prove his point, he reached out for her and pulled her against his side.

She nestled against him in her favorite position. She was warm and soft against him, but his body was fortunately satisfied for the moment. He held her close.

After a stretch of silence, she murmured, “I didn’t think you even thought I was pretty.”

He made a choked sound of indignation. “I’ve told you plenty of times that you’re absolutely—”

“Yeah,” she broke in, “and I appreciated it. But I didn’t think you really meant it.”

Paul shook his head in the dark. She really had no idea how absolutely irresistible he found her, and the only way he’d be able to convince her was to move into territory he’d vowed to avoid.

Sometimes, lately, he couldn’t even remember all of the sound, rational reasons for not having sex with Emily he'd always lectured himself on. His defenses were getting very weak.

All he said was, “I did.”

* * *

Tears filled Paul's eyes and then streamed down his face, despite how he tried to suppress them.

He stared wetly down at the cutting board he was working on and muttered, “You gave me the onions on purpose.”

Emily laughed, working through a pile of wild mushrooms with her knife. “Of course, I did. It’s my birthday. I shouldn’t have to chop onions on my birthday.”

Paul raised one shoulder in an attempt to wipe away the tears with the sleeve of his shirt as he chopped through the onions as quickly as he could. “Is that a rule?” He sniffed as another pungent wave of onion wafted up to him. “Wow, these onions are strong.”

“It’s just common sense. You shouldn’t have to do anything unpleasant on your birthday.” Finishing her mushrooms, she grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his cheeks and eyes.

When Paul could see clearly again, he saw that Emily’s eyes were soft on his face. “I never thought I’d see you cry.”

“And all you had to do was make me chop onions.”

Emily had told Paul several times that she didn’t want to do anything special for her birthday. At breakfast that morning, she’d given him a serious look. “Paul, you’re not planning anything big today, are you? I told you I didn’t want to do anything high-maintenance. It would make me…sad.”

He’d understood and respected her wishes, although he’d really wanted to plan something elaborate to celebrate her birthday, some sort of grand gesture that would make the day special, unforgettable.

That wasn’t what she wanted, though. So, after breakfast, they’d wandered around the neighborhood and stopped by all the places she loved.

The Masons had wanted to have a birthday get-together for Emily, inviting all of her old friends, but Emily had suggested they do something casual the following day without any presents or cake, explaining that way it wouldn’t feel so much like her wake. So Paul and Emily were making dinner together tonight, and that was all the birthday celebration she wanted to have.

Paul was trying very hard not to think about the fact that Emily was finally eighteen.

And they would be sharing a bed again tonight.

Finished with the onions, Paul went over to wash his hands and wipe his eyes. “Do you want me to chop the garlic?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, going back to cloves she was pulling out of the garlic bulb. “You can get the shrimp ready.”

“It’s mostly ready. They peeled and deveined it for us already.” Paul inspected the package of large, beautiful shrimp he’d set on the counter earlier.

“Then you can get the pan ready.”

Paul obediently went over to the stove and turned on an eye to heat up the pan.

The dinner preparations continued and were mostly uneventful, with the exception of Emily’s dumping flour on the counter and getting it all over her red v-neck top and then somehow his shirt as well.

When they finished the pasta with shrimp, mushrooms and wine cream sauce, Emily prepared their plates and carried them outside to the terrace to eat. While Paul grabbed the bottle of champagne he’d chilled earlier, Emily lit candles on the table and laid out the napkins and flatware.

Emily was smiling as she started to sit down, but then she noticed Paul pick up the champagne bottle to uncork and she frowned at him suspiciously. “That looks like it might be expensive. I told you I didn’t want anything special. Just a normal dinner.”

“Of course not,” Paul lied with a quirk of his lips. “Not even mid-level.” He showed her the label, hoping she wouldn’t recognize the very exclusive brand. He’d on purpose not chosen Dom Pérignon, since she would very likely know it by reputation. “But what’s a birthday without champagne?”

Emily laughed as she watched him pop the cork and pour the bubbly wine into her crystal flute. “You’ve come a long way in your willingness to serve alcohol to a minor.”

He arched his eyebrows, making her laugh again, as he poured out champagne for himself too. It would be hypocritical for Paul to hold Emily to the drinking age, since he’d never followed it himself.  Plus, not allowing Emily, in the last months of her life, to enjoy wine with a meal—one of the fundamental ways of celebrating occasions for thousands of years in human history—was simply wrong. It had only made him uncomfortable at first, since he’d been so set on thinking of her as very young.

He thought about her differently now, and she was going to have champagne on the last birthday she might ever have.

Emily was smiling at him as he sat down across the table from her. The evening was crisp but not cool, and Emily looked absolutely beautiful in the flickering shadows of the candlelight.

She picked up her champagne flute and took a sip, closing her eyes as she did.

“Good?” he asked, watching the nuances of expression cross her face.

She nodded. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

Paul took a sip too and allowed the bite and bright effervescence of truly excellent champagne to hit his tongue with undeniable pleasure. “Happy birthday,” he murmured, when he lowered his glass.

“Thank you,” Emily said again. “For everything. I know you wanted to do something big for my birthday, but…”

“But nothing. I wanted your birthday to be good for you, no matter what it took.”

“This is good for me, and it doesn’t feel so much like the end.”

Paul glanced away at her words. “This isn’t the end, Emily. You have months left to live. You have a lot of good things left to do. And we don’t know what will happen in the meantime.”

He didn’t say it, but she might be cured. He wasn’t giving up hope that it could happen. Sometimes, that hope was the only thing that allowed him to enjoy any of these moments. The most likely future would rise up in his mind like a pitch-black shadow, threatening to completely swallow him up. But, whenever it did, he forced it back, forced it down.

Emily might not die, and if let himself think about how he would feel if she did, he wouldn’t be able to make it through another day. He wouldn’t be able to be here for Emily now, when she needed him.

That was something he couldn’t allow.

She nodded and smiled, a little poignantly. “Anyway, I’m not going to mess up a perfectly lovely meal by dwelling on that.” She took a bite of her pasta. “I think we did a pretty good job with it.”

Dinner was good. The food was excellent and, although they were quieter than usual, the mood didn’t feel awkward or sad. When they were done, Paul made Emily stay in her seat as he went back into the kitchen to bring out the cake he’d had made for her.

It was a tiny cake—just big enough for two people. It was decadent chocolate lava cake and decorated with a single live orchid. He also told someone to bring in Emily’s birthday presents.

Emily was delighted with her cake, and she paused in front of the single candle to make a wish.

She slanted him a look that was almost shy just before she blew out the candle, and he wondered what she wished.

He knew his wish would have been for her to live a long, healthy life.

Since the cake was too messy to serve into separate plates, they both ate from the same dish. Emily moaned in pleasure over every bite. That sensual sound, combined with the sight of her tongue greedily licking at the fork and her lips, wreaked havoc on Paul’s body.

To keep himself from doing something very stupid, he got up to bring out Emily’s presents.

She was cleaning off the plate, but she stopped, with the fork midway to her mouth, when she saw that it took Paul three trips to bring out all the presents he’d bought her.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. Then she turned to glare at him.

He had to suppress a smile of amusement, but he managed to give a nonchalant shrug. “Is there a problem?”

“I told you not to do anything big!”

“I thought you meant for a birthday party,” he said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t think I wasn’t allowed to buy you a few presents.”

Emily stared at him for a moment. Then she stared at the pile of at least sixteen wrapped boxes on the patio. Then she collapsed into laughter. “A few presents? Don’t act all innocent with me. You defied my wishes on purpose!”

“What would you expect?” he asked with a smile, feeling warm at the sight of her obvious affection for him. “What else would I do?”

Paul had been looking forward to Emily’s opening her presents since he’d bought them a couple of days ago, and he wasn’t disappointed.

She opened the biggest present first. She screamed with laughter at the top-of-the-line luxury tent she unwrapped. Most of the rest of the gifts were also camping supplies for the trip he’d planned for them to Prince Edward Island next week. She loved all of them, including the hot-water-on-demand portable water heater and the gourmet camping coffeemaker.

He’d had a lot of trouble figuring out what to buy for her birthday, since most of the things he would have naturally chosen would make her think about how little time she had left to enjoy them. The ludicrously expensive camping gear was a good choice, though, since they had an immediate occasion to use it and every new item made Emily laugh even more.

He’d gotten her a couple of other things too, though. One was a delicate music box that opened to display a crystal ice-skater who twirled to the tinkling tune of a cheesy power ballad. He’d had to commission it and pay an exorbitant amount to have it completed in time.

As she stared down at the little ice-skater spin to the music, she choked on a mingling of laughter and tears.

The last gift she opened was even smaller. When she pulled away the paper, she revealed a velvet jewelry box. She gasped and looked up at him questioningly.

He gave a diffident shrug and hoped she wasn’t going to be upset by it. She’d loved the music box, but she wouldn’t know how expensive it was. This gift was obviously expensive.

She opened the box very slowly and gazed down at a deceptively simple diamond and emerald bracelet. He’d looked all over the place for an antique bracelet to match her ring and necklace, but everything was either ugly or unwearably ornate. So he’d resigned himself to a custom bracelet that would work with her other jewelry but she would still feel comfortable wearing. It was an elegant platinum strand of alternating square diamonds and emeralds.

In his search, he’d seen several other pieces of jewelry—beautiful and full of character—that he’d wanted to buy for her, but he’d been afraid she wouldn’t accept them. Since this bracelet would work with the jewelry she already had, he didn’t think she would refuse it.

When she just stared down at the bracelet, he started to get nervous. “I think it will match,” he said at last, “But if you don’t like it—”

“Don’t like it?” she choked, finally looking up at him. “It’s beautiful, Paul. But you shouldn’t have—”

“Of course, I should have. It’s your birthday.”

He stood up and went over to take the bracelet out of the box. Since she was sitting on her knees on the ground to unwrap her presents, he lowered himself to his knees beside her. He delicately placed the bracelet around her left wrist and clasped it.

The lights on the patio glinted on the stones of her ring and her bracelet, set off by her fair skin. They both gazed down at the effect.

“It’s perfect,” Emily said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him into a soft hug. “You really shouldn’t spoil me so much. But thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Paul hugged her back, pleased that she’d appreciated his efforts. He ignored her admonishment about spoiling her. Of course, he was supposed to do that. If anyone deserved it, Emily did.

* * *

Emily was taking a shower when Paul came into their bedroom that evening. He blinked when he saw there was a wrapped present on the bed.

He walked over and looked down at it, even more surprised when he saw a plain white card tucked under the blue bow on which was handwritten in Emily's script, “Paul.”

Since the gift was obviously for him, he untied the bow and slid his fingers under the folds of paper to unwrap it.

Inside was a framed photograph of him ice-skating with Emily last week. It wasn’t the notorious photo of them almost kissing that was plastered all over. This one showed the two of them holding hands as they skated. They were looking at each other, and both of them were smiling with transparent happiness.

He had no idea how Emily had gotten it. Then he realized there was a note. He picked it up to read.

Thank you for making me happy. I didn’t want you to forget that you were happy with me too, at least for a little while.

Paul couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. The ache in his throat was unbearable.

That pitch-black shadow in the back of his mind loomed forward to swallow him up as he thought about a time in the future when he’d have to look back, when he’d only be able to remember being happy with Emily.

He stared at the picture for a long time. Reminded himself that he had expert investigators looking into his father’s research facility, where they might find a cure. Eventually he was able to force the shadow back. Eventually he was able to breathe.

Then Emily’s light voice came from the doorway to the bathroom, “I contacted the guy who took that other picture. He’d taken this one too, and he sent it to me. I thought it was nice.”

“It is,” he said, far too hoarse.  His eyes hadn’t moved from the photo. “It is. Thank you. You didn’t have to give me a present.”

“I know, but it’s my birthday. I can do whatever I want.”

His eyes cut up to her for the first time, and he swallowed hard when he saw her. She was wearing another little gown—this one lavender and a little clingier than the one she'd worn last night.

His defenses had already been battered too far this evening. His body leapt to immediate attention, and he might have made a soft sound in his throat.

Emily came over and sat beside him on the edge of the bed. She looked down at the picture he still held.

“Paul,” she said. Her voice sounded a little strained, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to figure out why. “I know that we’ve been working on the assumption that we aren’t…that we aren’t going to consummate our marriage. And I was all right with that, particularly when I thought you weren’t interested.”

He stared at her, dazed and uncomprehending.

“But,” she continued, her eyes darting self-consciously from his face to the photo, “but it seemed like you might be interested last night. At least a little. And I would really like to…to be married to you all the way. So I thought maybe we could talk about …” She took a shuddering breath and looked away from him, as if she was too embarrassed to continue. “I’m eighteen now. Does it make any difference to you?”

He kept staring at her, trying to process whether she was saying what he thought she was saying, what he desperately wanted her to be saying. It shouldn’t matter—he should be strong enough to resist no matter what.

But he just wasn’t.

He wanted her desperately, and she seemed to be offering him exactly what he wanted.

“I’ll understand if it’s not what you want,” she hurried on, when he didn’t answer. “And if you say no, I promise I’ll never bring it up again. I don’t want to make you feel guilty or awkward or anything. You’ve done so much for me. You don’t have to do this, unless…unless you want to.”

He knew he needed to say something, since her voice had grown stretched and uncertain. His mind and body had started to throb in excitement, in hunger, in a thrilled kind of satisfaction.

He wanted her. So much. And she could be his.

“Paul?” she prompted, peering at his face now. Her hands were twisting nervously in her lap.

It was that last sign of her nervousness that finally prodded him into action. He reached over and covered both of her hands with one of his. “I do. I do want to.”

She gasped, her face transforming with a slow kind of excitement. “Really?”

He nodded, a little stiffly. He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. “I do. Want you.”

Her hands had shifted in his grip until both of hers were clutching his. “So we can…”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

Paul swallowed hard, the shattered remnants of his old defenses now in rubble at his feet. He didn't even care. “Tonight. If you’re sure it’s what you want.”

“I’m sure,” she said, her face glowing in that way that had always taken his breath away. “I want you too.”

Paul wasn’t sure who moved first—he thought it was probably him—and they were suddenly kissing.

Since they were sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, he took Emily’s head in both of his hands and pulled her toward him more closely, brushing against her lips lightly with his and then sinking into a deeper kiss.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she made a pretty moan in the back of her throat as his tongue stroked her lips, her tongue, the inside of her mouth. A swell of pleasure and primitive pride rose up inside him when he heard the husky sound she made and felt her body respond eagerly to his embrace. He was already hard, but his arousal intensified as the kiss grew deeper and more urgent.

When he felt one of Emily’s hands stroking the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, the stimulation was so torturously good that his hips gave a tight, involuntary buck, causing him to momentarily lose his stability and fall backward onto the bed. Emily moved with him, passionate and eager. She found his mouth again and continued the kiss, rubbing herself against him, her breasts against his chest and her pelvis against the bulge in his trousers.

Paul almost lost it then and there, his body wound so tightly from weeks of wanting her desperately. He pulsed with need, possessiveness, and satisfaction at finally being able to touch her, to feel her, to have her this way.

The spasm of hot tension in his groin, warning of an involuntary release, broke through the blur of his feelings. He tore his mouth away and stared up at her as she sprawled on top of him.

Both of them were gasping, but Emily’s flushed face suddenly twisted with distressed frustration. “Please don’t stop, Paul,” she rasped, her hands fisting in his shirt. “Please don’t stop again.”

“I’m not stopping. Not for long, anyway. I just need to think for a minute. We need to…” He was vastly relieved when she hauled herself into a sitting position on the bed, her legs folded and tucked under her butt. Freed of her weight and her irresistibility on top of him, Paul found some leverage with this legs, which were still hanging over the side of the bed, and sat up too. “We just need to take a minute first.”

“Okay,” Emily said. Her mouth gave an unexpected little quirk. “I guess I can refrain from jumping you for a few more minutes. As long as it’s just a few.”

He gave an involuntary breath of laughter at her wry humor, which did nothing to help the tenuous condition of his arousal.

He was suddenly absolutely certain that he wouldn’t be able to last through a couple of minutes of foreplay, much less any sort of satisfying intercourse. It was painful to admit such a thing to Emily, whom he only wanted to impress, but it was better than embarrassing himself completely before he managed to get his clothes off.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” he forced out, rubbing some of the perspiration off his forehead. “I’m not sure I smell very good and—”

“You smell fine,” Emily interrupted, looking highly indignant either at the suggestion that he was less than fragrant or at the idea of waiting until he’d taken a shower, “You don’t need a shower.”

Touched at her response despite his physical condition, Paul explained the truth. “I won’t be long. But, if I don’t take the edge off first, this is not going to be very satisfying for you.”

She stared at him for a minute. Then her face transformed with understanding, with a touch of self-consciousness, and with something like pleased pride. “Oh. Well, you don’t need to do it in the shower. I’m happy to help you—“

Paul leaned over to give her a quick kiss. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll feel better if I have a shower anyway. I’ll just be a minute.”

“Okay.” She watched him as he stood up, holding himself very tensely, “You’re not going to change your mind in there, are you?”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

Paul took a few deep breaths when he closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower. He desperately needed to pull himself together if he was going to make it through the evening with any sort of pride intact and if he was going to please Emily the way she deserved.

He took care of himself under the spray, coming embarrassingly quickly at the image of Emily waiting for him in his bed—flushed, tousled, and impatient in her little nightgown. He lathered up efficiently and rinsed off. When he stepped out of the shower to dry off, he felt more like himself.

And he’d realized a couple of things they needed to talk about before they got swept away by lust again.

He pulled on a pair of pajama pants before he left the bathroom. When he opened the door, he saw that Emily had gotten off the bed. She’d put the clothes she’d been wearing earlier in a hamper and she’d set the gift and card she’d given him on the dresser. Now she was turning on the bedside lamp.

She turned around when he emerged and gave him a narrow-eyed look of scrutiny.

“I said I wasn’t going to change my mind,” he told her. “Don’t look so suspicious.”

“Well, I hoped not, but I wasn’t sure.” She sat down on the edge of the bed. She was smiling at him, but she also looked a little self-conscious. And a little nervous.

Paul went over to sit down next to her. “Do we need to use some sort of protection?” he asked, trying not to hold his breath. He wasn’t sure if there were any condoms in this house, since he hadn’t lived here for years, but he’d make sure he found some if Emily wanted him to.

She shook her head. “Obviously, I wouldn’t want to get pregnant only to die in a few months, but I’m infertile, remember?  And since you haven’t slept around in a while and since disease is kind of a moot point for me anyway, we should be fine.”

He nodded slowly. “Are you a virgin?”

Her cheeks reddened even more, but she met his gaze in almost a challenge. “Yes.”

Paul knew he shouldn’t be pleased. It was an irrational, archaic, unworthy response.

But he was.

Emily stuck her chin out, obviously misreading his expression. “But that fact is irrelevant. I want this, Paul, and it doesn’t matter if I’ve had sex before or not. It’s not like I haven’t had the chance. It just…it just never felt right.”

He reached out to cup her cheek with one of his hands. “Are you sure it feels right now?”

She nodded. “I’m sure.” Then a teasing smile flickered briefly on her lips. “So, if it’s not too much trouble and you don’t need another minute, will you please make a move?”

He leaned into a kiss, taking her head in both of his hands the way he had before. But this time, he kept leaning forward, gently pushing her down onto her back so she was sprawled out sideways on the bed.

She twined her arms around his neck and held him tightly as she opened to his kiss and arched up into his weight.

Paul kept kissing her, pulsing with hunger and excitement. As they kissed, they managed to adjust their position on the bed so their heads were near the pillows, if not exactly on them, and their legs were on the bed all the way.

After a few minutes, Paul’s mind was a hot blur, and Emily was squirming impatiently beneath him. He finally released her mouth, hearing her gasp desperately as he trailed his lips along her jaw and then down her throat until he’d found a lovely hollow at the juncture of her neck and shoulders.

“Oh God!” Emily gasped, clutching at his head as he applied suction to her skin. She was trying to pump her hips against his weight, and she couldn’t seem to hold herself still. “Paul!”

He couldn’t help but be thrilled that she was so responsive, so eager already, when he hadn’t gotten any farther than her throat. He’d always known she lived her life passionately, letting herself go without inhibition when she felt it was safe.

He just couldn’t believe she was letting herself go this way with him.

His arousal already tightening again, despite the relief he’d gotten a few minutes earlier in the shower, Paul moved lower down her body, nuzzling the soft swell of her breasts. She arched up into his mouth, and he brushed one of her nipples with his lips through the cotton of her gown.

She made a delicious breathy sound in response, so he did it again. And then again. And then he took the very tight nipple between his lips.

She sucked in a ragged breath and dug her fingernails into the back of his neck, arching her spine even more.

Hotly pleased by her response, he moved his mouth to her other breast, twirling the nipples he’d just been sucking with his fingers as he teased the other one with his mouth.

Emily made a little sobbing sound, her head tossing on the pillow, mussing her hair.

He pleasured her until she was writhing uncontrollably and trying to rub herself against his thigh.

“Paul, please,” she begged at last, her hands clutching desperately at his shoulders. “I need…I need…”

He knew what she needed. He lowered himself even farther down her body, stroking down her belly and hips until he’d reached her thighs. Then he caressed his way back up, pushing up the fabric of her gown as he did. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her underwear and pulled it down her legs.

Paul stared down at her as he bared her intimately to his sight. Her belly was mostly flat, with just a delicious little outward curve. It was shuddering with her fast breathing. Her hips were as lush as he’d known them to be, and the little strip of hair between her thighs seemed to be inviting him in.

He realized he was breathing as rapidly as Emily was, and he was fully erect again, the coiled pressure pulsing urgently.

He suddenly hoped he’d be able to last long enough to please her.

“Paul?” Emily prompted. “If you’re just going to stare, maybe I should resign myself to taking care of my—”

“I’m going to take care of you,” he interrupted, managing to angle a dry look at her face. “Just give me a minute.”

“These minutes are getting to be annoyingly long.” Her voice was wry, but her expression was soft. He could also see some lingering shyness there, and he knew he needed to be careful to not embarrass her, no matter how much he wanted to gaze down at her luscious body and howl.

He lowered his mouth, nuzzling between her thighs and suddenly overwhelmed by the visceral scent of her desire .The noise that escaped his throat as her fragrance hit his senses was so primal, almost animalistic, he couldn’t believe it had come from him.

“Paul,” Emily breathed. Her hips squirmed restlessly, and her hands had curved around his head, tangling in his hair.

He lifted his head to meet her eyes—saw she was torn between desire and self-consciousness. The desire needed to win out, so he stroked her thighs gently until she’d parted her legs for him. Then he slipped one of his hands in between.

She made a little sound when he touched her. She was warm and soft and slick. When his finger slipped inside, his breath hitched as he realized how wet and ready she was. For him.

He pumped his finger a few times, causing her to respond in clumsy little bucks of her hips. Then he pulled out his finger, now wet with her moisture, and caressed her flesh until he’d found her clit.

She rolled her pelvis and released a shuddering exhale of pleasure. She’d lifted her head from the pillow and was staring down at him. “There, Paul, there!”

He smiled up at her, losing his breath at the wild, hungry look in her eyes. Then he slid one finger back inside her and lowered his mouth to nuzzle her again.

“Oh God!” she gasped, as he started to pump his finger. She made a choked sound as he joined the one finger with another.

She was incredibly tight. So tight he was hit with a flicker of concern. He didn’t want to hurt her, and he was afraid he was going to have to.

“Eh,” she gasped again as he thrust the two fingers, curling them up slightly. She was trying to ride his fingers with her hips, and her arms had flailed out to the sides and were fisting the bedding.

Paul teased her clit with his tongue, causing her to cry out in response.

Everything about her was passionate and responsive and somehow real. Paul had never experienced anything like it, never felt anything as utterly genuine.

All of it was Emily, and she was giving all of it to him.

His arousal throbbed dangerously as Emily’s motion grew more urgent. He closed his lips around her clit and sucked hard.

She came undone completely, crying out wordlessly and shuddering as orgasm took her. He felt her clamp down hard around his two fingers. He kept pushing against them and sucking her clit to extend her pleasure as long as he could.

He was gasping as much as she was when her body finally started to soften, and he was embarrassingly grateful that he’d managed not to come in his pants.

“Oh my God,” Emily rasped, wiping what looked like a tear off her cheek. “Wow.”

He raised himself up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and adjusted so he was beside her again. He leaned over to kiss her gently on the lips.

She grabbed his head and pulled him back into a much harder kiss. “That was…that was incredible,” she murmured when she withdrew. “I had no idea it could be so good.”

Paul smiled, ludicrously pleased with this affirmation that he’d pleased her more than anyone else ever had.

She reached down and grabbed his left hand. Then raised it up to her mouth so she could press a kiss on his palm and then on his wedding band. “I always knew I had an exceptionally talented husband, but I had no idea it extended to that.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Why would you doubt me?”

“I never will again.” Her eyes darted down his body, where they rested on his obvious arousal beneath his pajama pants. “Did you want me to do you now? I’m not any sort of expert, but I can try my best.”

Paul made a choked sound at the thought of Emily going down on him. His pelvis even gave an involuntary little thrust. But he managed to say, “No. Not tonight.” When she frowned, he explained, “That might be the end of it, and I thought you wanted to have sex.”

“Oh. I do.” She reached over and stroked his chest, almost hesitantly. “Honestly, I’m kind of nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured gently, breathing deeply at the feel of her hands on his chest and then moving lower to his belly. “I’ll make it as good for you as I can.”

“I know you will.” Emily was smiling at him again, and her eyes reflected such affection, such trust, he couldn’t comprehend it. “I’m so glad my first time’s with you.”

Something swelled in his chest at the words, at the thought that she wouldn’t rather be doing this with someone else. He was momentarily paralyzed with the emotion—so strong and aching he could barely recognize it.

Then he realized Emily’s hands had reached the waistband of his pajama pants. “Can I?” she asked softly, slanting him another hesitant look.

He nodded and helped her as she started to pull down his pants, gently bypassing the prominence of his erection.

Emily stared down at him.

Paul felt an irrational wave of self-consciousness himself at her unwavering gaze. According to other women he’d been with, his anatomy was nothing to be ashamed of, but Emily was the woman who mattered to him most.

Her eyes moved up to his face. “Can I?”

He realized she was asking permission to touch him. Not trusting his voice to speak, he just nodded as he had before. He held himself very still as she reached out to gently brush the hard length of him with her soft fingers.

The light stimulation fired off thousands of nerve endings, sending shudders of pleasure through his entire body. He had to fight not to thrust into her hands.

She seemed mesmerized by her exploration of his body. Paul tensed his muscles so he could remain rigidly controlled in order to allow her to continue.

But when her fingers slipped down to his balls, he made a choked sound and pulled her hand away. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly. “You better stop.”

She looked surprised, but then her eyes moved from his tense, sweating face to his erection. “Oh,” she said, hiding a little smile, “Sorry.”

Her expression made him feel fond, almost tender. The emotion was such a contrast to his physical condition that Paul momentarily lost control of both of them.

He breathed deeply until he’d restrained his impulses, and then he gently rolled Emily onto her back. “You ready?” he asked, praying she’d say yes because he just wasn’t going to last much longer.

She nodded, her eyes wide and a little anxious.

Paul leaned down to kiss her and was relieved when she relaxed into the kiss, wrapping her arms around him and spreading her legs to make room for him between them.

He really didn’t know the best way to do this. He didn’t think he’d had sex with a virgin before, unless it had been in his teenage years when he’d been too stupid to realize it.

As he kissed her, he slid one hand between her legs again, relieved to discover she was still very wet. He slipped two fingers inside her as he had before, but this time he pushed against her inner walls in an attempt to stretch them as much as he could.

Emily seemed to like the feeling, since she tried to ride his fingers in shameless little pumps.

He lost concentration for sustaining the kiss, and their lips broke apart. Emily was making more of those breathless sounds of pleasure, and Paul braced himself above her, his face very close to hers as he thrust into her with his fingers.

“Paul, please,” Emily gasped at last. “I want you. I want you.”

With a rough sound, he pulled his hand from between her thighs. Then he repositioned his knees and gently massaged Emily’s thighs and bottom. “It might hurt, Emily.”

“I know. It’s okay.” She gazed up at him with that affection, that absolute trust on her face. “I’m ready.”

So, bone-deep desire and something even stronger coursing through his body with his blood, Paul lined up his erection at her entrance. He licked his lips and braced himself with one arm straightened above her.

He nudged at her gently with the tip, and she raised her hips slightly, trying to meet him.

He penetrated her about an inch, sucking in his breath at the feel of her tightness him, even so shallowly. His body was so tense it was almost shaking.

“It’s okay, Paul. I’m not made of glass. Just do it.”

So he did. He reangled, went deeper, reangled again. Then thrust home.

Both he and Emily made hoarse groans at the full penetration. She felt so good, so hot, so wet, so tight around him that it was almost more than he could bear.

But Emily had cried out for a different reason. Her cry had been pained, and she was shifting restlessly, biting her lip, and looking away from him.

“Is it bad?” he asked, the stab of guilt and concern bringing him down from the edge of exquisite pleasure. “Baby, is it bad?”

“No,” she said, tossing her head slightly. “It’s okay. Just give me a minute.”

Paul didn’t want it to just be okay for her, and he was horribly afraid that it was much worse than okay. She wasn’t meeting his eyes.

He started to pull out, instinctively unwilling to do anything that would cause her pain.

“No,” she gasped, “Don’t you dare! I just need a minute.”

Her outraged tone distracted him enough to keep him from doing anything. He just held himself still above her and tried not to think about how incredibly good she felt around him.

To his surprised, she gave a choked giggle.

He blinked down at her.

Her face soft with affection, she said, “It’s kind of uncomfortable, Paul, but it’s already starting to get better. No need to look like I’m being tortured. You’re very impressive, of course, but you’re not that big.”

He shook with involuntary laughter. “Don’t make me laugh,” he warned her.

It wasn’t an idle warning. He felt tension tightening in his groin, so he forced the amusement back under control.

Instead, he leaned down to kiss her lips gently. He stroked her lips with his tongue and, when she opened for him, he very gently slid his tongue into her mouth.

It didn’t take long until her tongue was fluttering to meet his. Then her hands lifted to his shoulders. And then to tangle in his hair.

He groaned into her mouth at the stimulation from her fingers, combined with the feel of her body relaxing around his erection. She’d felt almost painfully tight before, but now she felt pliant, clinging, responsive.

The pressure of desire swelling up in him again, he tore his mouth from Emily’s. “How is it?’

“Better,” she gasped, wriggling a little beneath him, “Good.”

He muffled a groan and kissed her again. And this time he combined the kiss with a rocking motion of his hips. Not real thrusts, since he was still afraid of hurting her, just rhythmic little pushes against her.

Even the slight friction as he moved inside her felt so good he moaned into her mouth.

She moaned too. Her fingers started to dig into the skin at the back of his shoulders. Then she jerked her head from side to side.

He pumped a little harder, still not making real thrusts. His skin was wet with perspiration, mostly from the effort it was taking to control himself. Part of him wanted to fuck her for real, wanted to thrust hard and fast, wanted to claim her as his in the most primitive of ways.

But the rest of him rose up in defiance against anything that might hurt her.

Emily’s body was changing beneath him. She’d grown softer, hotter. Her motion became eager, in uneven bursts of erratic pumping that stopped and started, as if she were trying to process a flood of new sensation. She started clawing lines down his back.

The combination of relief, pleasure, pain, and inconsistency was almost torturous to Paul, firing through his body and coalescing in the throbbing of his arousal. He gave a few uncontrolled thrusts into Emily’s body, harder than he would have made on purpose.

She cried out in either pleasure or surprise. He didn’t think it was pain.

“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to distract himself from the climax that had almost overwhelmed him. He froze inside her, looking away from her with a twist of his neck.

“No, Paul. I want…I need…”

“I know,” he said hoarsely, barely managing to hold it together. He was shaking now. Emily would be able to see it. “I know. Let’s try it this way, baby.”

He readjusted and used one hand to cup her ass, easing it up and then guiding her motion as he started to thrust with a faster, steadier rhythm.

“Yeah!” Emily arched her back and followed the rhythm he’d initiated, matching his thrusts with her own. “Good.”

He grunted in affirmation, overwhelmed by relief brought on by the now consistent rhythm and the rising pleasure from his motion with Emily.

She was moving with him now, and the friction was so good he could barely contain it. She still clawed at his shoulders and back, but that sign of her desire for him only made it better.

Paul stared down at her. Her hair was tousled messily around her face. Her cheeks were deeply flushed. Her blue eyes were almost wild with urgency, pleasure, and something else. She was beyond talking now, and she was rocking eagerly.

It was because of him. For him. With him.

Paul was grunting, the sounds forced out of him to the rhythm of his thrusts, as everything felt so good, so right, so needed.

Sex had never felt like this before, not even with women he’d believed himself to care about. He had no idea how to explain it, but his whole being blurred over in a wave of feeling and sensation.

His speed accelerated, as the whole universe started to crest. He stared down at Emily through the haze of a rising orgasm.

Her face was twisting now, and he felt little tremors run through her whole body. She was about to come. He could feel her. Emily.

Emily, who just last year he’d believed to be a clever but mostly irrelevant part of the neighborhood. Who had been the only person brave enough to agree to testify against his father. Who had proposed to him a marriage of convenience that had turned into anything but.

Emily, with whom he’d jumped out of a plane, seen the Pyramids, and ice-skated. Whom he’d nursed through fevers and had to bully into spending his money.

Emily, whom he had to save from dying.

Emily, who was his wife.

She arched up dramatically and froze for just a moment, her mouth opening in a silent cry. Then her body shook with her orgasm.

It was too much for Paul. He gave a few last pushes into her clenching body and felt his balls, his whole body tighten down. Climax sliced through him, the pleasure of release making him choke out something uncontrollably.

The ripples of pleasure lasted longer than he’d expected, and he was completely leveled when the last of them finally passed.  His elbows buckled, and his body fell down on top of Emily in an embarrassing collapse.

Emily didn’t seem to mind. She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him, occasionally shuddering or whimpering in the aftermath.

She was soft and supple and warm and strong beneath him, and Paul couldn’t seem to pull away. He couldn’t believe how much having sex with her had taken out of him. He couldn’t seem to speak, but she didn’t seem to be capable of it either.

After a minute, she started to gently stroke his back.

He roused himself enough to lift his head and stared down at her.

Her eyes were soft and fond and replete. He imagined his looked the same.

He could feel a gush of their mingled fluid. She might have bled. He needed to get up and make sure she was all right. Instead, he leaned down to kiss her, rather clumsily. She kissed him back, just as exhausted and disoriented as he felt.

Paul’s body felt fully sated for the first time since they’d gotten married. All of his muscles had softened, relaxed, until he could barely support himself. His head dropped again, his face buried in the hollow of Emily’s neck. He pressed a few more kisses against her neck.

“Are you okay?” he finally managed to articulate, worried his weight was too heavy for her, worried that she would be sore, worried that now that her physical desire was satisfied she’d realize this wasn’t really what she wanted.

She felt so small beneath him. She was so incredibly sick. She had only a few months left to live, if the doctors were to be believed. It felt like she could be so easily broken.

“Yeah,” Emily breathed, stroking his hair again. “It was so good. Are you okay too?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good. So good.”

It was only partly the truth.

He’d gotten exactly what he’d wanted, and it had been better than anything, but Paul had realized something else that would change everything.

He loved her—he loved her—and she was going to die.

NINE

Emily’s stomach churned with anxiety as she slanted a discreet look over at Paul.

They were in the back seat together, being driven over to the Masons' for the party in Emily's honor. He looked handsome and urban in a black dress shirt and slate gray trousers, and his expression was as composed as always.

But something was wrong. Emily knew something was wrong.

She was very much afraid it was because they’d had sex the evening before.

She was still a little sore—a pang of pain she’d feel every now and then that reminded her of how Paul had been deep inside her last night. This morning, even though she'd been disappointed when she woke up to find his side of the bed empty, the feeling had inspired a silly kind of pride.

Now it just intensified her anxiety.

For her, the sex had been better than any fantasy. Yes, it had been rather uncomfortable, and yes, it had been occasionally awkward since she hadn't really known what she was doing. But that was to be expected. And being with Paul that way, so intimately, so deeply, had totally blown her away.

He had enjoyed it too. She was absolutely sure he had. He’d been so sweet, so careful, but he had also been into it. He’d been just as overcome with desire as she’d been, and he’d needed the consummation just as much. Emily was certain of it.

Which was why she couldn’t understand why he’d withdrawn from her today.

He hadn’t been rude or cold. He’d been just as polite and attentive as ever, asking her about how she felt and making sure she didn’t need anything. But he’d spent most of the day working, beginning well before she'd awakened. Even when he was with her, it felt like he wasn’t really there.

It made her want to cry, and she had no idea what to do about it.

Paul hadn’t said anything in the four minutes since they’d gotten in the car and left the house. The silence was really starting to get to her. It wasn’t like they always had to talk when they were together—they were quiet a lot—but this silence wasn’t companionable or peaceful.

It was stiff and uncomfortable, and Emily felt a chill of nerves as she tried to process what it could mean.

Mostly just to make conversation, she said, “Thanks for coming with me tonight.”

Paul gave a half-shrug, his eyes focused on the sidewalk out the window. “It’s no big deal. Why wouldn’t I come with you?”

He was her husband. Perhaps he assumed accompanying her to parties thrown for her benefit was part of his spousal duty, but Emily was pretty sure he would have rather stayed at the house.

“I don’t know. I mean, not everyone here understands us, you, our marriage. I guess I thought it might be kind of awkward for you. It means a lot that you're willing to come.”

Paul’s eyes had darted over to her face, but now they shifted to window again. “It’s no big deal.”

Emily gave up on that conversation, since he clearly wasn’t going to share anything genuine with her.

Maybe she was expecting too much. Their marriage was only supposed to be one of convenience and sympathy, and it had already ended up placing a much greater burden on Paul than she had imagined when she suggested it.

In the last couple of weeks, she'd come to a series of revelations about him—all of them thrilling and gratifying. She'd realized she could be there for Paul when he needed her, offering him comfort and support. She'd realized he could actually have a good time with her, be happy in a way she rarely saw him. She'd realized he was genuinely attracted to her, a revelation so shocking it had taken a whole day to process. She'd realized she was more than just a duty and responsibility to him.

But maybe she was expecting too much in terms of emotional connection.

Paul cared about her and was attracted to her and, for the time being, was enjoying being with her, but she was a passing phase for him. That had always been the fundamental truth of their marriage. Their relationship, whatever it was, would only last for a few months.

Emily could invest in the marriage emotionally as much as she wanted, since she wouldn’t be alive to deal with any consequences.

It wasn’t fair to expect Paul to invest emotionally in their marriage the way she did, though. In fact, it would be insane if he did. She couldn’t be selfish about this. She had to think more about Paul's needs than her own.

She needed to do better about not expecting so much from him and not getting her feelings hurt if he didn’t reciprocate.

With this worthy ambition, she resolved that she wasn’t going to let Paul’s reticence today bother her. It probably wasn’t personal. She wasn’t going to pry into his privacy or make him feel guilty about any perceived slights.

He didn’t owe her anything. In fact, she owed him more than she could ever repay.

So, when the driver pulled up in front of the Masons’ row house, Emily was ready to have a good evening with her friends, even with a perplexing husband by her side who refused to talk to her.

Paul was reaching down to grab the bag of hostess gifts they’d brought for Mrs. Mason when Emily threw her worthy resolve out the window.

“Are you sorry we had sex?” she burst out, her hand gripping her seatbelt strap, which she hadn’t yet unbuckled.

“What?” Paul blinked at her, clearly taken aback by the abrupt question.

Emily swallowed hard, desperately trying to read some sort of expression on his guarded face. Sometimes, it was so easy to read his feelings, but sometimes he was so unknowable she wanted to scream. “Last night,” she explained. “Are you sorry we had sex?”

“Of course not. Why would I be sorry?” He was actually looking at her now, his gray eyes scanning her face with a strange urgency. It was definitely an improvement on his avoiding her gaze completely, which he'd been doing most of the day.

“I don’t know, but you’ve been acting kind of…kind of standoffish today. So I was starting to worry that you…regretted it.” She was suddenly embarrassed for even bringing the subject up. “Or maybe it’s something else. I know you have a lot of other stuff going on. It might have nothing to do with me. But I just got worried.”

“There’s nothing for you to be worried about. I don’t have any regrets about last night.”

“You don’t?” she asked, a note in her voice that was almost a plea. “You’re sure? Because it was so…it was so special to me. But, if it wasn’t good for you, I’d understand. We can talk about it, though. You can just tell me. I’m not going to expect you to do anything you don’t want to do.” Her voice wobbled dangerously on the last few words at the thought that she might be something Paul didn’t want to do. "You won't hurt my feelings."

“Emily,” Paul said hoarsely, sounding much more like himself than he had all day. He reached over until he was cupping her cheek with one warm hand. “Emily, that’s not it at all. It was good for me too. You must have seen how good it was for me. That’s not it at all.”

“Then what…” She trailed off, not sure if she had the right to demand for him to tell her the truth. Commanding herself to get a grip on her spiraling emotions, she forced herself to smile at him brightly. “Okay. As long as things are okay with us, I'm good. We don't have to talk about it. Everything's fine.”

She got out of the car, feeling too hot, a little dizzy. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment or some other emotion.

Paul had gotten out of the car too, faster than she would have expected. He took her arms and pressed her back against the closed car door, gently but unwaveringly. “Emily, if you’re upset about something, then everything is not fine.”

“It’s not?” she breathed, very stupidly. She gazed up at his tight face and intense eyes, and the sight of him that way relaxed the ache in her chest at the same time as it tightened a coil of desire between her legs.

This was Paul. The real Paul. He hadn’t really retreated from her after all.

Then, realizing how foolish she'd sounded, she added, "I wasn't upset."

“Yes, you were. I’m sorry if I was withdrawn today.” He stroked her face until his hand tangled in her loose hair. “It has nothing to do with regretting last night.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “So you don’t regret it?”

Paul leaned forward until he’d brushed her mouth with his. “I don’t regret it,” he murmured against her lips.

With a thrill of relief and excitement, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him against her with an entitlement she’d never experienced before.

She couldn’t believe she had the right to hold him this way, kiss him this way. She'd been his wife for a while now, but she'd never really felt entitled to him like this before.

They kissed deeply, emotion and sensation washing in hot waves through Emily’s body. It was hard to say how long the kiss would have lasted had they not been interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming not far behind them.

Their lips parted, and they both turned to look in the direction of the closing door.

Emily saw Laura Mason staring at them, evidently having just gotten out of the cab that was pulling away from the curb.

Emily eased away from Paul a little, suddenly overwhelmed by a familiar insecurity. She thought she’d grown a lot in the last few months, particularly in being more confident in her ability to attract men. In fact, just the minute earlier, she'd been reveling in the fact that Paul Marino was attracted to her.

But seeing Laura now brought all of Emily's old insecurities back.

Laura used to date Paul—way back when.

He’d dated her longer than anyone else. Everyone thought he’d really fallen for her.

But Paul was Emily's husband now. She was taking good care of him, and he seemed to be happy with her in these few months they were together.

Laura couldn’t have him.

“Emily,” Laura said, giving her a breathtaking smile. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too.” Emily forced herself to remember that Laura had always been decent to her. She pulled out of Paul’s arms, which were still draped loosely at her waist, and walked over to greet the other woman.

Laura gave her a little hug, and then her eyes drifted over to Paul, who was standing in the background, watching quietly. “Hi, Paul,” Laura said, her striking dark eyes a bit uncertain, as if she didn’t know what to expect from him. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” He gave Laura a strange little smile that made Emily’s gut twist even more. “How’s life treating you?”

“Good.” Laura’s smile broadened. “Great job. Great apartment. It’s so strange to be back.” She turned to look at her family’s house.

“Yeah,” Emily agreed. “We feel the same way.” She took Paul’s arm as they started to walk toward the door. Maybe it was petty, but Paul was hers—at least for the time being—and she wanted to make sure everyone knew it.

Paul shifted the bag he carried into his other hand and didn’t pull away from her as they walked.

“You look great, Laura,” Emily said, resolutely trying to be nice, to feel nice. “I love your hair like that.”

“Thanks.” Laura brought up a hand to brush down her dark waves. “You look good too. Different, somehow.”

“Oh, well, I’m dying, you know, so that probably explains it.”

When she felt Paul stiffen beside her, she realized she’d let her insecurity push her into the defensive irony that had been habitual when she was younger. “Sorry,” she said hurriedly, giving Laura a sincerely apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Thanks for the compliment. I shouldn’t be so prickly.”

Laura’s eyes were full of pity as she smiled back. “That’s okay. I’m so sorry about…about…”

“I know,” Emily interrupted, so Laura wouldn’t have to finish the statement. “Thank you.”

She didn’t want Laura’s pity. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, but she knew it was unavoidable. Laura wasn’t trying to be patronizing or superior.

It was just that Laura had always been the epitome of the princess, the blessed life that Emily had never possessed, and it was hard to fight those feelings even now.

Emily smiled up at Paul as Laura opened the front door. Paul didn’t smile back, but his eyes were soft on her face, and he reached over to brush a strand of hair out of her face.

When Emily looked back, she saw that Laura, Chris, and Mrs. Mason—the latter two had come to greet them at the door—were all staring at her and Paul.

Emily felt strangely embarrassed. She used to daydream about somehow landing a fantastic man and taking him to a party where she could show off to all her friends. Paul was better in every way than the men she used to dream of, but she didn’t have any desire to show him off tonight. In fact, she’d rather no one had witnessed the little moment they’d shared just now. It had felt private. Just between her and Paul. It seemed like no one else would really understand.

She usually wasn’t the kind of person who got embarrassed at the drop of a hat, but she felt suddenly hot as she smiled at Chris and Mrs. Mason in greeting.

It was even hotter in the house.

* * *

Emily looked around for Paul but couldn’t find him.

He’d been talking to Laura for a long time—far longer than Emily was comfortable with—but their conversation had broken up a few minutes ago.

The party seemed to be going pretty well. Chris had been friendly and sympathetic, and she felt better about having the tension resolved between them. She was feeling surprisingly tired, though, despite it not even being nine in the evening. Plus, the Masons’ living room was too crowded, so Emily was overly warm.

She wanted to find Paul. She supposed he’d been trying to give her some space to talk to her old friends in peace, but she didn’t want space or peace. She wanted Paul beside her. She wanted to make sure he was all right. She wanted to make sure people were treating him right and not holding against him either his father’s conviction or the fact that he’d testified against him.

“Hey, Emily,” came a soft, feminine voice from behind her.

Emily turned to see Laura approaching, carrying a cup of punch and smiling. “Hey. Have you seen Paul?”

“I was talking to him a few minutes ago,” Laura explained, “but I don’t know where he is now.”

“Oh.” Emily rubbed her hot face with her left hand, wishing she were outside where it was cooler.

“Your ring is gorgeous.”

Emily stretched out her hand so Laura could better inspect her engagement ring. “Thanks. I really like it too.”

“Paul has good taste.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you two…” Laura cleared her throat, as if she weren’t sure how to ask the question. “Is it just a marriage of convenience? That’s what I was thinking, since it happened so suddenly and everything, but then it looked like you two were…he was kissing you and…”

“We’re married,” Emily replied, a little coolly. “Why shouldn’t we kiss?”

“I know. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that I never thought the two of you would ever…I mean, you’re not the most obvious couple, so it surprised me that you were…”

Emily sighed. “I know we’re not an obvious couple. But we have an understanding, and it works for us.”

“Oh,” Laura breathed, as if she were relieved about something. “That’s good. I mean, it's good you two have an understanding.”

“What do you mean?” Emily felt a tug of dread in her chest, although she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why.

“I just mean I would have been worried if you’d thought Paul was in love with you. I mean, not long ago, he was really into....” She trailed off as if she were embarrassed. “I mean, he didn’t seem interested in you at all before. So it would have been hard to swallow that he’d suddenly fallen in love out of the blue. And it didn't seem like…But as long as you have an understanding, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m glad he’s helping you do all the things on your list.”

Laura’s eyes were open and sincere, and Emily could tell she was genuinely concerned and trying to help. But, as she processed what the other woman had said, it felt like Emily’s heart had been ripped from her chest and stomped into pulp on the ground.

Evidently, Laura had been the one to dump Paul last year, and he’d just been talking to Laura for a long time. Maybe she’d picked up some sort of continued interest.

Not that Paul would do anything. Emily was absolutely positive about his commitment and faithfulness to her.

But she hated—she absolutely hated—the idea that Paul might be yearning for someone else, that he’d rather be with someone other than her, even for these few months.

She knew he was attracted to her, and she knew he cared about her.

But love was out of the question for them, since they didn’t have a future. He could fall in love with someone else, though. Maybe he already had. Emily knew now how deeply emotions ran in Paul. If he loved someone, he would love her all the way, no holds barred.

He was committed to Emily for these few months, but he could be biding his time to pursue a future with someone else. The future he really wanted.

And the thought crushed her. It just crushed her.

“Yeah,” Emily agreed, her voice weak but with at least a semblance of normality. “He’s been great. Will you excuse me? I need to find the restroom.”

Laura said, “Sure,” so Emily was able to escape.

She didn’t go to the bathroom. She slipped out of the hot, confining house and went out to the small yard, toward the toolshed. The evening was cool, and she breathed deeply, trying to purge herself of her silly, immature worries and resentments.

She couldn’t be selfish. She just couldn’t. Even if he’d wanted to, Paul could never have a future with her. Their relationship had always been temporary, and so—even if she were the kind of woman he might fall in love with—he would never let himself do so.

She would never want him to love her. It wouldn’t be fair. It would leave him wounded when she died, and she couldn’t bear the thought of that.

But it still hurt. It still hurt to think that Paul would want to be with someone other than her. She’d thought they were happy together for the moment.

Her eyes were filled with tears she couldn’t quite suppress, and her cheeks burned almost painfully with emotion. Her shoulders shook a few times as she stared at the Masons' toolshed.

She’d always been tougher than this. She’d never been so sensitive.

Dying was really disrupting her emotional stability.

“Emily?”

She recognized the voice, coming from behind her, and it made her chest hurt even more.

“Are you all right?” Paul asked, approaching her quickly.

She fought through the emotion in an attempt to compose her face. “Yeah. I’m fine.” Her voice didn’t come close to sounding convincing.

Paul reached her and grabbed her upper arms in both of his hands, turning her to face him. “Emily, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

She hadn’t really been crying, but she was now. The concern in his voice and the urgency in his eyes broke her control, and she buried her face in his shirt and let herself cry for just a minute, releasing the coiled tension and the bewildered confusion of so many unanswerable questions.

Paul’s arms wrapped around her immediately, tightly. He smelled so familiar—clean, masculine, faintly expensive. Like Paul. She breathed him in as she cried.

He let her shake against him for a minute, and his arms never loosened. Finally, he murmured, “Baby, please tell me what’s wrong.”

He’d called her “baby” last night in bed. It had felt so intimate, so possessive. It sounded that way now too, although with an entirely different resonance.

Sniffing and trying to compose herself, she pulled her face out of his shirt. There was a damp spot on the fabric now from where she’d been crying. “I’m fine. It’s really not a big deal. I was just overly emotional or something, and I overreacted.”

“Overreacted to what?” Paul asked, an edge to his voice she rarely heard. “Did someone do something to you?”

“No,” she assured him, “Everyone has been really nice. It’s just…” She trailed off, self-conscious about admitting what had so upset her. She was still way too hot, even in the cool air, and now she was also feeling weak and kind of dizzy from the overload of emotion.

“It’s just what?”

Emily sighed resignedly and gave up, since Paul wasn't likely to let this go. “I was just talking to Laura, and it brought up some of my old issues. You know, I always saw her as the girl all the guys wanted, the girl I could never be.”

Paul’s eyes narrowed, and she felt his body stiffen slightly. “So you were feeling insecure?”

“Yeah. Everyone was into her. You were into her too, right?” She felt another hot flash and dropped her eyes.

Paul’s body stiffened even more. “You were feeling insecure about me?”

She couldn’t meet his gaze. “It wasn’t that I thought you would do anything. I know you wouldn’t. It was just…it was a lot like at that restaurant in New York. Only worse, because it was with Laura. I told you it wasn’t anything serious. It just got me going, for some reason.”

Paul tilted her chin up so she would have to look at him. “Emily, you can’t seriously think I’m interested in Laura.”

She sniffed. “I know you wouldn’t do anything.”

“I wouldn’t want to do anything.” Paul sounded indignant, almost angry. “How could you even think such a thing, especially after last night?”

Emily felt like squirming. “Well, I know under normal circumstances you never would be with me, so why shouldn’t I think you might prefer to be with someone else?”

“Emily!” he choked.

She was starting to feel a little guilty at her assumptions, since Paul seemed so absolutely outraged by the idea. It was also very comforting, that he was so offended at the thought that he might be yearning for someone else while he was married to her.

Feeling like she needed to explain herself a little more, she said, “I know we—our marriage—we’re temporary. It’s always been that way. So I know you’ll want to and need to move on with your life after I…after I’m gone. I know I have no right to be bothered by it, but it does bother me to think that you’d rather be with someone else when you’re with me.” She rubbed her face. “It’s such a strange situation to be in, knowing I’m going to die. So it messes up my normal emotions. I’m not usually this weepy. At least, I don’t think I am. I’m sorry if I wasn’t fair to you.”

“Emily, there’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

The ache in her heart suddenly burst into flutters. “Really?” she breathed, gazing up at him.

“That's the truth.” His eyes were intense, almost hungry, and she had no way of understanding what the expression meant.

“Oh. Good.” She swallowed hard. “Me either. I mean, there’s no one else I’d rather be with than you.”

Paul pulled her into a hug so tight he almost cracked her ribs. “Good,” he replied, the one word muffled by her hair.

When they pulled away, Emily felt relieved, happy, and kind of embarrassed by her overreaction. In an attempt to move on, she asked, “So has the evening been too bad for you?”

“No. It’s been fine.”

She peered up at his face. “Are you sure? Were the Masons’ nice enough to you?”

“Yes. They were fine.”

She wasn’t sure if he was speaking the truth, since he looked a little guarded at the question. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it, and it probably wasn’t the best time anyway.

They went back into the house, and the heat inside swallowed Emily up. She really wanted to go home. Now that the emotion was resolved, she felt shaky and totally drained. It would be rude to leave the party early, though, since the Masons’ had planned it just for her.

She told Paul she needed to go to the bathroom, and while she was there she splashed some water onto her face to cool down and revive herself. They only needed to stay another hour, and then they could go home.

When she returned to the living room, she saw first thing that Paul was talking to Mrs. Mason across the room. He was smiling, and it seemed to be sincerely, and Emily was glad to see it.

Laura came over to ask if she was all right. She thought maybe Emily had been upset by what she’d said earlier.

Emily had absolutely no energy for such a conversation. She tried to assure Laura she was fine, but she was having trouble putting together an articulate sentence of more than a few words.

She couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. Maybe the emotion had taken more out of her than she’d realized. Maybe she was just tired from a long day. Maybe it was just too hot in the room. She felt flushed, she was sweating a little, and she felt like she was swaying on her feet.

Laura was expecting her to respond to something she'd said, but Emily couldn’t even remember what had been said.

She took a few deep breaths and suddenly realized she needed to sit down. Her knees felt like they were going to buckle. Her vision blurred over and then darkened. She swayed forward. Would have fallen had strong arms not caught her around the waist.

Emily leaned against Paul, who must have pushed people out of the way to get to her so quickly. He put a hand on her forehead, then on her cheek, then back on her forehead. “Oh baby,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She blinked up at him blankly, having no idea what he was talking about. “Is something wrong with me?” she asked, wondering why she couldn’t seem to stand up without Paul’s support.

“You’ll be all right.” Paul turned to Mrs. Mason, who must have followed him across the room. “We need to get home.”

Mrs. Mason nodded, her eyes full of sympathy and understanding. "She can lie down here if she needs to."

But Emily tried to pull away. “We can’t leave. The party’s not over yet.”

“You have a fever. I don't know how it spiked so quickly.” Paul stroked her hair back from her face. His other arm was still around her waist. “Thanks for offer," he said to Mrs. Mason. "But I need to get her home.”

“Oh, no,” Emily mumbled, realizing that feverish was exactly how she was feeling. A surge of dread and disappointment overwhelmed her.

She really didn’t want to have another fever. She’d been hoping to have sex with Paul again when they got home, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen now.

Now everyone at the party was looking at her like she was a freak, like she was an object of pity, like she was on death’s door.

All of which might be true.

She knew she said goodbye to people and thanked the Masons’ for their hospitality, but she couldn’t really remember any of the conversations.

Then they were walking to the waiting car—or Paul was walking and Emily was stumbling along, leaning on him.

They must have gotten home, but Emily had no memory of it.

***

Emily’s body ached, and she felt like she was trying to break through a thick fog of heat and pain as she fought to open her eyes.

Before she could do so, she felt something cool and wet stroke her face. “Paul,” she breathed weakly. She wasn’t anywhere close to thinking coherently, but she somehow associated the sensation of relief with that name.

She managed to force her eyes open, fuzzily expecting to see a handsome, familiar face and deep gray eyes.

Instead, she saw a woman with a plain, square face and brown hair pulled back in a single braid. “Sorry,” the woman said with a quick flicker of her lips. “Just me.”

Amy. Emily managed to connect a name with the face. “Hi, Amy,” she croaked, aware enough now to realize that it would be rude to express brutal disappointment over the fact that her nurse was tending her rather than her husband. “How are you?”

“I’m doing just fine—thanks for asking.” She wiped the damp cloth over Emily’s face again and added, “He’s sleeping, but he said he was to be woken up if you need him. Would you like me to get him?”

Emily shook her head, wishing it didn’t ache so much, wishing she wasn’t so feeble. Now that she was awake, she felt absolutely miserable. “He should sleep.”

She had no idea what day or time it was, but she was certain Paul needed rest.

She shifted in the bed, which she discovered was the big four-poster bed in the master bedroom of Paul’s house in the neighborhood. The covers were pushed down to her knees, something she’d probably done in her sleep. Since Amy was cooling her off, Emily felt a little chilled, so she reached down to pull the covers up again.

She was wearing boxer shorts and a tank-top that she had no recollection of putting on. Her hair was pulled into two, low ponytails, but she didn’t know how it had gotten that way.

The clock on the bedside table said it was 6:05 in the morning. Then the memory of the previous evening—the Masons, Laura, getting struck by a sudden fever—came rushing back into her mind.

She groaned, as the full consciousness of what was going on made her body ache even more.

“It’s time for some pills,” Amy said briskly. “They should help you feel better.”

Willing to do anything that might make her feel better, even raise her pounding head, Emily let Amy help her up enough to swallow some pills with cool water.

“When did you get here?” she asked, after she was able to drop her head again.

“An hour or two ago. Your husband didn’t think you were fit to travel back downtown—which was absolutely right—so he called to see if I could come out here instead.”

Emily stirred restlessly under the covers, hoping the pills would take effect soon. She didn’t really want to make conversation, but it was only polite to try. “It was nice of you to come all this way.”

“It wasn’t so far. Your husband even offered to send a car. I guess you all had a bad experience with that other nurse the agency sent, and he didn’t want to risk a stranger.”

Swallowing back another groan at that memory, Emily managed to say, “I’m glad you came.” A wave of heat washed over her, and she pushed down the covers again impatiently. Then she realized that she was in Paul’s bed, in Paul’s room. “Where’s he sleeping?” she asked, without any segue.

“In one of the guest rooms. He’d stayed up with you until I arrived, and he looked totally beat.”

Emily’s eyes strayed over to the door of the bedroom, vaguely hoping to see Paul there. She felt strange and disconnected—in the house that didn’t feel like home the way the apartment did—and she wanted to make sure he was all right.

She just wanted to see him.

“I can wake him up,” Amy said mildly, evidently catching her gaze and interpreting it correctly. She’d picked up the thermometer from the bedside table and reached over to take Emily’s temperature. “He said I could wake him up for any reason.”

Emily shook her head. She wasn’t needy enough to allow Paul to be woken up just because she missed him.

“Your fever is starting to go up,” Amy said. “Do you feel up to taking a bath? I’d like to keep your temperature down as much as we can.”

Emily didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to take her clothes off. But she was also feeling so sickeningly hot that she couldn’t stop wriggling. So she said, “Okay.”

* * *

Emily was so hot it felt like she was smothering, like she couldn't suck any air down her lungs.

With a surge of panic, she arched up and cried out instinctively for help. “Paul! Paul!” It felt like she was screaming it, but her mouth and throat were too parched to generate more than a broken gasp.

Then wet coolness was being wiped over her face, and she took a shuddering breath of relief. Then there was water at her lips, and she gulped it down desperately. More coolness. More water.

Then she was finally able to relax back onto her pillow. “Paul,” she breathed hoarsely.

When she opened her eyes, she fully expected to see her husband leaning over the bed, cooling her down. She saw Amy instead.

In spite of all the other aches in her body, she still felt a sharp pang of pain in her chest as she wondered why Paul wasn’t here when she needed him.

Amy pulled back the wet cloth she’d been wiping Emily’s face and neck with. “If you’re all right for the moment, I’ll run get him for you.”

Emily was aware enough now to think coherently, and she managed to shake her head, despite how much she wanted Amy to do exactly what she’d offered. “No. Don’t. I’m fine.”

“He’s just down the hall in the library. It won’t take a minute.”

Emily just shook her head again.

Amy soaked the wash cloth in the bowl of ice water on the table beside the bed and wrung it out with professional efficiency. “Are you sure? He said I was to get him immediately if you needed him.”

“I don’t need him.” Emily desperately wanted to see him but also desperately didn’t want to be any more of a burden on him than she already was. “He needs to catch up on work.”

Amy’s brown eyes were uncharacteristically gentle. “I don’t know how much work he’s actually getting done today. He’s really worried about you.”

Emily’s face twisted with emotion, and she writhed on the bed.

“He was in to check on you a little while ago,” Amy added.

It seemed unfair that she kept missing his visits. It felt like she hadn’t seen him in ages. “I didn’t know he was here.”

“You were asleep. It’s the medication—makes you druggy. But that’s got to be better than being wide awake and miserable.”

Emily nodded, tossing her head on the pillow. It was much better this time, with consistent doses of the good medicine Dr. Franklin had prescribed to her during her last fever, but she hated feeling so out of it. And she hated not being aware of Paul at the few times he was with her.

“Are you up for another bath?” Amy asked, putting down the wash cloth and straightening up. “Your fever spikes in the afternoon, and I don’t want it to get any higher.”

Emily didn’t feel up for anything, but she let Amy help her sit up on the side of the bed. She breathed deeply to fight the waves of dizziness.

When Amy returned from the bathroom, where she must have been drawing the bath, Emily said, “At least I haven’t been delirious yet.” She tried to be grateful for whatever she could so she wouldn’t feel sorry for herself.

When Amy just helped her to her feet and didn’t answer, Emily asked, “I haven’t, have I?”

“No. You’ve talked in your sleep some, but that’s normal. You haven’t been truly delirious.”

Emily limped through the large bedroom, leaning heavily on Amy. When she got into the bathroom, she was greeted to the soothing scent of lemon and eucalyptus. That bath was still running, and the large tub was half filled. “I talked in my sleep?” she asked, feeling a stab of anxiety. “What did I talk about?”

Amy tsked her tongue and helped Emily pull off her tank-top and shorts. “Now don’t be worrying about that. I’ve learned to not even pay attention in such cases, since it’s just a lot of disconnected words and thoughts.”

“Was I talking when Paul was in here before?” Emily asked, realizing she sounded almost childish but absolutely incapable of doing otherwise. The idea of babbling out her private thoughts in Paul’s presence was mortifying. Waves of heat slammed into her, and she wasn’t sure if it was the fever or embarrassment. “What was I saying?”

Assisting Emily as she lowered herself into the tepid bath, Amy started to say something, which Emily guessed was another attempt to brush off the subject. But maybe the nurse could tell that it was going to fester in Emily’s mind if she didn’t answer the question, because she paused, restarted, and said, “You were talking about camping and Anne of Green Gables.”

That didn’t sound too terrible, and Emily was able to relax as she stretched out in the tub, the water blissfully cool against her hot skin. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes.

When she’d determined that Emily was all right, Amy left the bathroom and went into the bedroom, probably to straighten up the room and remake the bed, which she usually did while Emily was in the bath.

As Emily’s body cooled down, it also started to ache more. She tried not to think about feeling this way for three more months.

Feeling even worse.

Until she finally died.

She didn’t want to do it.

She just didn’t want to do it.

She wanted Paul, and he wasn’t here.

A few tears slipped out of her eyes, and she brushed them away impatiently. Being sick was definitely making her emotionally unstable. She’d cried more in the last month than she had her entire life. She took a shaky breath and tried to control herself.

Emily gasped in surprise when Amy’s voice broke into the silence. The nurse must have come back in to check on her, since she was standing in the bathroom doorway now. She must have seen Emily crying.

“Let me get your husband for you.”

Fighting the impulse to accept the offer, since it was exactly what she wanted, Emily shook her head. “I’m really fine. This has been hard on him. He shouldn’t have to help me all the time.”

Amy was silent for several moments. Then she said in a voice that was matter-of-fact, almost bland. “I’ve been doing this a long time. And, in my experience, it’s easier for someone who loves you to be able to help—in any way they can—than to sit around and do nothing.”

Emily didn’t correct the other woman’s assumption. She didn’t have the energy to explain that Paul didn’t really love her. She kind of liked the way it sounded anyway.

She shook her head again, shifting her position and making the bathwater ripple. “Please don’t get him,” she mumbled.

“Okay. It’s your choice.”

* * *

Emily spent the afternoon in a groggy, uncomfortable haze—sometimes dozing off and sometimes just tossing restlessly on the bed. Her fever didn’t spike so high she became delirious, though.

She hadn’t seen Paul all day, not since the previous evening at the Masons’ party. If he occasionally came to look in on her, it was when she was asleep. Somehow his absence made everything worse.

Slowly waking up again, out of a restless, feverish sleep, she felt a cool cloth on her face. “Paul,” she gasped instinctively, although she was becoming lucid enough to realize her caretaker was almost certainly Amy.

“I’m here, baby,” a familiar, male voice broke through the heated darkness. “I’m here.”

Emily’s eyes flew open and she saw him, leaning over her. She saw his face, his rumpled dark hair, his eyes. She gave a silly little sob of relief.

Paul’s face twisted briefly, but his voice was mild when he said, “It’s not quite time for more medication yet. Can I get you anything else?”

She shook her head, realizing he must have misinterpreted her sob. “I’m okay.” She looked around the room and realized it was otherwise empty. “Where’s Amy?”

“She’s getting some rest.” He stroked the cool cloth gently over her face again, dampening her hairline and then sliding it down to her neck.

“Oh.” She tried to think clearly, but she couldn’t do so. She stared at the bedside clock, and it took a long time for her to register that it was almost eight in the evening. “Did you get a lot of work done today?”

“Not very much.”

“Oh.” She experienced another hot wave of achiness and twisted on the bed, desperately trying to find a cool spot and get comfortable. When she was able to speak again, she mumbled, “Maybe you should go back to the apartment so you can focus better. I’m fine here with Amy.”

There was a long silence, during which Emily earnestly but futilely tried to adjust her covers so she wouldn’t somehow be both hot and cold at once.

Then Paul replied, “I will take that suggestion as a symptom of fevered delirium and thus won’t be offended by it.”

Emily sucked in a surprised breath and tried to focus up at his face. While his voice had been very dry, his expression did look a little stiff. “Sorry,” she muttered, guilt doing nothing to ease her physical condition. “I just hate for you to have to deal with all this.”

“You need to stop worrying about me.”

“I do worry about you.” She squirmed some more and tried to shake her sheets into feeling better against her skin. It didn’t work. They were hot, slightly damp from her perspiration, and smelled like sickness. She gave a little whimper of frustration.

“Amy said you could have another bath if you wanted one,” Paul told her, standing up and looking down at her. “And I can make the bed up with clean sheets while you’re in there. Does that sound all right?”

“Yes, please,” Emily rasped, desperately wanting to get out of the icky bed. Acting on instinct, she reached her arms up toward Paul, so he could help her get to her feet.

He reached down for her and eased her up, but his face twitched slightly with what looked like amusement. Emily had no idea what would be funny.

“Are you laughing at my hair?” she asked, a little dazedly, as she leaned against Paul and tried to get her balance. Her legs felt ridiculously weak.

“How could you possibly think I would laugh at your hair when you’ve been so sick?”

“Oh.” She clung to his gray t-shirt and looked up at his face. She was too groggy to effectively read his expression. “Why were you laughing at me then?”

“I wasn’t laughing at you.”

She wasn’t sure she believed him. She was too ill to pursue the matter, though, so she let him help her into the bathroom.

When she got there and stared down at the empty bathtub, she was suddenly stumped. “Oh.”

“I didn’t have a chance to get the bath ready,” Paul explained, leaning down to turn on the faucet and check the temperature of the water. When the water was the temperature he wanted, he pulled the tub stop and took a couple of small bottles from a shelf. He poured in a few drops of each. Then he turned back to Emily, who was still staring at the puzzlingly empty tub. “It will just be a minute before it fills up.”

“Oh.” She blinked up at him. “That’s why you were laughing at me.”

“I told you I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said with a smile that was almost fond.

“Liar.” She wasn’t insulted. In fact, his expression was intimate in a way she liked. She was hot and shaky, though, and she desperately wanted to get into the bath. She should never have gotten out of bed until it was ready.

Paul had leaned over to feel the water in the tub again. Evidently satisfied with the temperature, he straightened up. He looked at Emily for a moment, and then he sat down in the white accent chair that had seemed to her completely useless when she first saw its position in the bathroom.

“Come here,” he murmured, reaching an arm out toward her.

Emily was far too hot and sticky to feel like cuddling, but she let him draw her onto his lap anyway. She didn’t have the strength to keep standing, and she didn’t want to sit in only an inch of water in the tub.

Paul was hot—way too hot—but she liked the way his arms wrapped around her tightly, and she liked the inexplicable tension she could feel in his body as he held her.

She buried her face in his soft shirt and felt like she was falling apart, felt like he was barely holding her together.

When the tub filled most of the way up, she pulled away from him. He exuded too much heat—it was making her too hot. And the churning emotion she sensed in him was making her confused and shaky.

The bath was cool and mild and peaceful, and Paul was none of those things.

* * *

She was ice-skating on fire.

The whole rink was on fire, and she kept falling down, the ice burning her as much as the flames were.

She struggled to pull herself up, but every time she did her ankles or knees would buckle again. Over and over again.

Paul was skating too, except he was on the opposite side of the rink. He skated like a professional, doing turns and jumps and even a couple of spins. She called out to him frantically to help her. She was burning alive and needed his help.

But he was too far away or too focused on his skating. He didn’t hear her. He didn’t save her.

She kept falling, kept burning, kept struggling to get off the smoldering ice. Until she made it to the edge of the rink and stumbled off.

But she stumbled off into nothing.

She was falling, kept falling, helplessly falling through the air into a vast, blue emptiness.

She was skydiving, but her parachute was burned away. And she was on fire, falling at a sickening speed, all by herself. Her heart pounded, and panic surged through her scorching body.

She was falling like Lucifer in a ball of white-hot fire, with only hell waiting at the end of the drop.

She screamed for help, and then she saw Paul. He was skydiving too, but he still had a parachute. He was good at this. He could catch up with her, grab her, save her. She cried out to him for help, over and over again.

He could hear her. He had to hear her. But he didn’t respond. He pulled the cord to his parachute and surged upwards as it deployed.

She kept falling. Far away from him.

She should have died when she hit the ground, but she didn’t. She landed in a lake. But the lake suddenly erupted in fire, and she was trying to swim through it naked.

She didn’t want to skinny-dip in a lake of fire, and she flailed her arms and legs desperately, trying to get herself out.

Through the smoke and flames, she saw that Paul was standing on the shore. But his back was to her, since he didn’t want to see her naked body.

She shrieked for him to save her, but he never even turned around.

And then the lake turned into her old house. And it was hell. Scorching, sulphurous, pitch black despite the fire.

She was burning alive, and she saw her father in the flames too, much farther into the depths of the house than she was.

She cried out to him to come back to her, not to leave her alone.

Then she saw Paul behind her, near the entrance.

She sobbed for him to help her, to please help her and her father. But Paul wouldn’t dare step into hell. Not for her.

Demons came to drag her farther in, and she fought them off as hard as she could. She needed to get to Paul. She needed to get to her father.

And she couldn’t seem to reach either one of them.

Then the demons dragged her down into a molten lake, and she screamed. She screamed. She screamed because she knew this was finally going to kill her.

But the lake was cool. Somehow, it was cool, and she sobbed. She sobbed. She sobbed with relief.

“Daddy,” Emily gurgled, breaking out of her delirium so suddenly it felt like the world had ripped into pieces. “Daddy, help me!”

“Emily,” someone said. It was Paul, she realized, not her daddy. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

She was sobbing, she realized. Genuinely sobbing. It hadn’t just been a dream. She was in the bathtub, and Paul was basically in it with her, his arms wrapped around her tightly to control her writhing. “Paul!” she choked, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude that she was alive and Paul was here.

And broken again at the realization that her father had been dead for two years.

She clung to Paul blindly, trying to climb out of the water so she could get even closer to him. “Paul,” she gasped, incapable of saying any other word.

He held her so tightly she couldn’t breathe, and he buried his face in her wet hair. “I’ve got you, baby,” he rasped, as if his voice was too strained to use. “I’ve got you.”

It wasn’t until Amy spoke that Emily realized she and Paul weren’t alone. “I think her fever has finally broken,” the nurse said with a calm, matter-of-fact tone that was like a balm on all the frantic urgency. “If you’re able, Mr. Marino, it might be a good idea to dry her off and get her back to bed. We don’t want her to get chilled.”

Emily was wet and naked, and Paul was just as wet, although he still had on his clothes.

She realized that Amy must be right. Her body wasn’t aching the way it had been. She wasn’t scorching with heat. She was actually a little chilly in the cool of the room. She couldn’t seem to let Paul go, though—not even to dry off and get back under the covers.

Since she wouldn’t let go of him, Paul ended up carrying her back into the bedroom. He released her just long enough to help her into the clean pajamas that Amy had retrieved. Then he pulled off his soaked t-shirt. His trousers were damp too, but Emily didn’t care.

She huddled against his warm, hard body, dragging him into the bed with her. Her teeth were starting to chatter, but she nestled against his heat. He pulled the covers up over both of them.

He held her just as tightly as she wanted, and he was still holding her a few minutes later when she fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Things had changed when she woke up. She could see from the edges of the window coverings that it was nighttime. The sheets on the bed seemed to have been changed again, since they were clean, crisp, and cool. Her body felt weak and drained but blissfully without heat or pain. And Paul had changed clothes—he was now wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants.

He was also sound asleep.

But he was still holding her against him, her body pressed up against his side and her cheek pressing against his chest.

She felt absolutely wonderful, exulting in the relief from fever, achiness, and delirium. Something was deliciously satisfying about the way Paul was asleep beside her—that he’d lowered his guard, relaxed, let go.

But she was curious enough to make the effort to raise her head and look at the clock.

It was just after three-thirty in the morning. She had no idea what day it was.

Her slight stirring must have woken Paul. He shifted beside her and, when she looked down, his eyes were opened.

“Are you all right?” he asked thickly, his eyes still groggy from sleep.

“Yeah,” she murmured with a tender smile, emotion rising up without restraint in her chest. “I’m better.”

He returned her smile and pulled her into a soft hug, and she adjusted until she was comfortable in his arms.

“How long was I sick?” she mumbled.

“Two days.”

“Oh. It felt like longer.”

“Tell me about it.”

Something about the dryness in his voice touched her, and she squeezed him hard with a sudden overflow of feeling.

“So we can still go camping?”

“Of course. You can take it easy today and, if you’re recovered, we’ll leave tomorrow.”

She let out a sigh. “Sounds good. Didn’t want to waste all my wonderful birthday presents.”

Paul gave a huff of soft laughter.

She settled against him happily, looking forward to going to sleep again.

It wasn't long before she did.

* * *

Paul was in a really bad mood.

Emily had never seen him in this kind of mood before. He’d been angry with her. He’d been withdrawn. He’d been frustrated and impatient. But she’d never seen him just generally grumpy for no apparent reason.

The closest she’d seen him like this was that day in Egypt when he’d been annoyed by their guide, Akil, and then she’d gotten into a fight with him over leaving the sights early. His mood then, however, had clearly been prompted by a specific situation—no matter how irrational his response to it was.

But there was no explaining what was wrong with him today.

He was just in a bad mood.

They were flying to Prince Edward Island for their camping trip, and Emily had woken up cheerful and excited. Paul had been quiet over breakfast, but she hadn’t let it worry her. He’d been as considerate with her as normal as they'd gotten ready to leave for the airport.

But things had started to go wrong when they’d been about to take off in the private jet he’d chartered—a ridiculous expense, but he said all the commercial flights were too long and roundabout. Their takeoff was delayed because of severe weather in the area. While Emily was anxious to get to PEI, and delays at airports were always frustrating, she wasn't too worried about it. It wasn’t like she was squeezed into a coach seat on a hot, crowded airplane for hours. She could stretch out and read Shakespeare. Waiting an extra hour or two just wasn't that big a deal.

Paul had not been pleased, though, and his displeasure had been evident to everyone around him, including the airport manager who ended up apologizing to Paul more than once for a weather situation he had no control over.

Emily had tried to get Paul to drink his mimosa, telling him he needed more vitamin C but mostly just hoping a little champagne would take the edge off his mood. He’d eyed her with cool impatience and obediently drunk the flute of mimosa in four gulps.

His mood hadn’t improved.

Emily quickly grew annoyed, but she didn’t reproach him. Not until he snapped at the young woman serving them on the plane. Emily asked for no zucchini in her vegetable and cheese omelet, but it arrived with zucchini in it. She didn’t think it was a problem, and she just started to pull out some of the unwanted zucchini and eat the rest of the very tasty omelet in perfect contentment.

But Paul called the server over and made Emily give the woman the plate back until they could get the order right. Emily had never seen him be anything but perfectly polite to service workers, and even now he didn't say anything directly rude or offensive. But his manner was brusque, and his tone was very, very curt.

The young woman serving them was clearly upset by Paul’s terseness. Emily could see it in the woman's face as she returned the omelet to the back of the plane. So Emily made a perfectly reasonable comment to him about how he didn’t have to take out his bad mood on the people around him.

They got into a long, heated argument. Over absolutely nothing. Finally Emily was so frustrated and indignant that she’d just given up. The jet was able to take off at last, so she read Shakespeare for most of the trip while Paul made calls and worked on email.

She listened to him get in arguments with four different people on the phone, over various issues connected to his work that weren’t going the way he wanted them to go. From what she could tell from overhearing only one side of the conversations, none of the issues seemed all that important, but Paul definitely acted like they were.

By the time they landed at the Charlottetown Airport on PEI, Emily had absolutely no patience left with her husband. Because of the way the day had gone so far, she wasn’t at all surprised that there was a hold-up as they tried to get through customs. It wasn’t long, but it was enough for Paul to speak sharply to several more people.

She was actually a little embarrassed. He never raised his voice, and the words he said were always basically civil, but his tone and his expression made it clear he was displeased with everyone he encountered. Because they’d arrived on a private jet, airport employees were going out of their way to accommodate him and so were flustered when he was so obviously unhappy with them. Emily tried to smile sympathetically and speak kindly to whomever he was terse with, thanking them for everything they did to help.

She didn’t try to talk to Paul. Obviously, any attempt at friendly conversation would be futile.

When they’d gotten off the plane, Paul had tried to get her to put her leather satchel on the baggage cart with the rest of their luggage for the porter to wheel to the car. She’d refused, ostensibly because she’d wanted to have her laptop and Shakespeare with her for the car ride to the north of the island but mostly because he’d been so bossy about ordering her to give it up.

Now she was regretting her stubbornness, though. Her bag was really heavy with the laptop, Paul’s old hardback edition of Shakespeare, and several other potentially useful items she’d tucked away in it. Although the airport wasn’t large, they did have to walk a bit to get from their gate to where the car was going to pick them up.

She didn’t complain though, since she’d been the one who insisted on carrying the satchel.

If Paul was just walking at a normal speed, it wouldn’t matter. He was moving through the airport with long, impatient strides, however, and Emily could barely keep up.

Eventually, she stopped trying. She was out of breath. Her satchel was too heavy. There was no reason they needed to hurry. And Paul was infuriatingly grumpy.

She wasn’t going to run to keep up with him.

When he noticed she was no longer beside him, Paul turned around and walked back toward her.

She glared at him, but he just ignored it. Without speaking, he reached over and lifted the strap of her satchel off her shoulder and moved it onto his.

Then he just started walking again.

Emily stared in outraged astonishment at his lean back and long legs in his expensive clothes.

Why the hell had she ever thought it was a good idea to get married to such a presumptuous, bad-tempered man?

She was tempted to just sit down on the floor of the airport in well-deserved retaliation. She didn’t though, since it was a rather childish impulse. She walked after him, not trying very hard to catch up. As it happened, she did catch up because Paul had simply stopped in the middle of the hall, evidently waiting for her.

She hoped his waiting was a sign of remorse at his gruff mood, but he didn’t say anything when she fell into step with him. She didn’t say anything either, mostly because she didn’t trust herself to speak without biting his obnoxious head off.

They eventually made it to the hired car waiting for them, and Paul returned her satchel after they’d both climbed into the plush back seat.

Paul’s phone rang then, and Emily listened to him have a brief conversation with someone who had evidently called to tell him that a project he was working on was put on hold indefinitely.

When Paul hung up the phone, Emily slanted him a look of annoyed impatience.

“What?” he demanded, catching her expression.

She rolled her eyes and looked away, determined not to get into another argument with him, since nothing could be resolved until he was out of this mood.

“If you have something to say,” Paul said in a clipped tone, “then just say it.”

“If I have something to say!” she repeated in outrage, her patience snapping like a twig. “What the hell is wrong with you today?”

“Nothing is wrong with me. There have been a number of frustrations—”

“That’s ridiculous!” she interrupted. “You’re acting like people have engineered all these things on purpose to spite you. I don’t care if you’re in a bad mood. You can’t take it out on everyone around you. You’re acting like the world is out to get you today. I'm telling you it’s not!”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I do not think the world is out to get me. I’ve had a lot on my mind today, and things aren’t going smoothly, but there’s no reason for you to overreact just because I expect a certain level of service and—”

“A certain level of service? People are running in circles trying to accommodate you, and you’re treating them all like crap. I’m sorry if things have frustrated you today. I’m sorry if thunderstorms and computer problems and legal contracts signed years ago have all conspired to give you a very bad day. But you can’t do anything about them! It’s all out of your control. It’s out of your control! Why the hell are you getting so uptight about little things you can’t do anything about?”

Paul lips tightened ominously, but he just looked away from her, gazed out the window of the now-moving car.

She breathed raggedly and stared at his impassive profile. For no good reason, she suddenly recognized that he didn’t just look tense and grumpy.

He looked wounded somehow.

“Paul,” she began again, her voice softer and broken by a surge of concern. “Paul, what’s going on? Has something happened?” She wanted to scoot over and hug him, to press herself against him in some sort of comfort. But he was too stiff and standoffish, and she was sure her advances wouldn’t be welcome.

“Nothing has happened,” he said coolly, looking back at her with eyes that now gave nothing away.

“Then why are you in this mood? It’s not like you at all.”

“Can we just drop it?”

She flinched slightly at his clipped tone and withdrew immediately. She pulled her Shakespeare out of her satchel and opened it up to the Merry Wives of Windsor. She pretended to read.

* * *

Emily woke up in a comfortable bed in a picturesque room at an inn near the Prince Edward Island National Park on the north coast of PEI. Paul had gotten them a suite for the three days they’d be camping, just in case Emily got sick or decided she’d rather have a real bed and bathroom.

Emily wasn’t planning to use it, since she was determined to go through with their camping plans, but she hadn’t objected when Paul suggested they spend the afternoon in the suite so they could comfortably shower after traveling, she could rest, and he could get a little work done before they went to the campsite.

She had taken a long bath in a lovely, claw-foot tub and then had taken a two-hour nap. She was tired from the frustrating morning and still kind of worn from her latest bout of fever, and she’d slept harder than she usually did in the middle of the day.

When she woke up, she felt comfortable and drowsy. She glanced over at the clock and saw it was already four-thirty in the afternoon. They would have to get moving soon if they were going to get to the campsite and set everything up before dinner.

Reluctantly, she rolled out of bed, glancing idly in the mirror and disturbed by the sight of her tangled hair and sleep-flushed face. It was much cooler here than it had been in Philadelphia, so she’d put on an oversized sweatshirt after she’d gotten out of the shower, and it didn’t do anything to flatter her figure.

She tried to smooth her hair down, and then she wondered what Paul was doing. Maybe he was finally out of his bad mood.

With this hope, she got up and padded across the room wearing socks but no shoes. She opened the bedroom door and looked out into the main living area of the suite.

Paul was there, standing with his back toward her, looking out the window at the view of the coastline. He was holding his phone to his ear with one hand and combing his fingers through his hair in evident frustration with the other.

“No,” he gritted out to whomever he was speaking to. “That’s not good enough. I’ve told you for weeks now we’re on a very limited timeline, and I’m expecting real results.”

He sounded urgent, almost angry. Much more tense than with anyone else he’d talked to all day.

After the other person replied, Paul continued, “I don’t want to hear excuses. You told me the resources you would need to make this happen, and I’ve provided everything you requested. This is the most important thing on my radar. Do you understand? The most important thing. You can’t possibly think I’ll accept ‘we’re trying our best’ as an acceptable report.”

Emily had stepped out into the living area, but now she froze. She had no idea what Paul was talking about. She’d had no idea he was working on a project that was evidently so important to him.

She had no idea what it might be.

It bothered her that he had something going on in his life—something so important to him—that she was absolutely ignorant about.

After a long pause, Paul made a rough sound of frustration. “That’s not good enough. It is not beyond your control when I’m willing to provide you with whatever you need to control it. Listen to me. You will make this happen.”

Emily’s heart pounded frantically, and she wasn’t even sure why. This project—whatever it was—was ripping Paul apart. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the tense line of his neck and back.

“Fine,” he said, after the other person evidently told him something more acceptable.  “A week from today I’ll be expecting to see some legitimate progress.”

He disconnected the call and kept staring out at the scenic view of the coastline and the blue-gray waves of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. She saw him take a long, shuddering breath, as if he were trying desperately to rein something in.

Her heart went out to him, no matter how grumpy and unreasonable he’d been today.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, moving over to him with an instinctive need to comfort.

Paul jerked visibly and whirled around to give her a cold glare. “Damn it, Emily. Tell me you’re there next time.”

She ignored the complaint and reached up to put a hand on his shoulder. “Paul, please tell me what’s wrong.”

He gave a tight shake of his head and looked away from her, back out to the view from the window.

She slid her hand up to his face and made him look back down at her. “Paul, please.”

Something softened in his eyes. She saw it, but he was still holding his body far too tensely. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“But I do worry about it,” she insisted. “If it’s bothering you this much, then I do worry about it. Why can’t you tell me what it is?”

Paul took another slow, ragged breath. His eyes devoured her urgently, but his features were painfully impassive and his voice was strained as he spoke. “It’s just a project I’m working on. A project that I’m…I’m very invested in. I was really hoping there would be progress by now, but there’s…there’s just not.”

“I’m sorry. What’s the project?” she asked, gratified that he’d told her at least that much but really wanting to know more. Anything so important to Paul was necessarily important to her too.

He opened his mouth, as if he would tell her. Then he closed it again. He cut his eyes away from her face. “It’s complicated. And I can’t really go into it.”

“Okay.” She swallowed over her disappointment because he was obviously still so upset. “Can I help at all?”

He shook his head, and his features relaxed into a bittersweet smile. “No. Thank you, baby.”

She released a sigh and pulled him into a soft hug, overwhelmed by the compulsion of her tender emotions and something almost like fear. She tried to process the reality of how deep and complex and conflicted and haunted a man Paul really was.

Comforting him, taking care of him, being married to a man like him would never be easy or simple. Not if she tried to do it for real. It would be hard, littered with hidden landmines she would have to learn to avoid, full of long-standing walls she would somehow need to get past.

In some ways, Paul was almost simpler when she was sick. Then he showed her nothing but care, protection, and tenderness. It was exactly what she needed from him, and it was a real part of who he was at the core.

But it wasn’t the only part. He was so much more than just that. He had so many more frightening depths and mystifying complexities.

If she’d been planning to be alive for more than a matter of weeks, if she’d been expecting to spend months, years, decades as wife to Paul Marino, she might actually be a little panicked by the prospect.

But she could do it. She was sure she could be a good wife to him—a real wife. With a little more time and experience.

Not that it really mattered. Three months wasn’t long enough to work through all the barriers Paul had erected around his so sensitive soul. She would do whatever she could to make him feel better at any given moment. She could give him what he needed for today. And that was all she would ever be allowed to do.

It took Paul a minute, but he eventually returned her hug. When did, his arms tightened around her with a surprising intensity. She hugged him more tightly too, responding to the need she felt in his body.

When he pulled away, Emily was somehow sure he’d forced himself to do so, like he wasn’t allowing himself to take what he needed.

Her heart was still pounding, and her hands shook a little as she watched him go over to sit behind the desk with a mumbled thanks.

He was going back to work. Or pretending to work. Or whatever he was doing.

But he was hurting just as much as he’d been the minute before. She was getting better at reading him, but it was still sometimes so hard to do what her intuition prompted her to do.

This time, however, the compulsion was just too strong.

So, ignoring the sharp pangs of insecurity and nervousness that needled at her, she walked over resolutely to the desk and plopped herself down on Paul's lap.

He huffed in surprise. “Emily,” he began.

She didn’t want to hear him object to her position. She was afraid it would make her feel rejected. So she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him like she’d been doing earlier. “Surely you don’t need to work anymore today. You were supposed to be taking the weekend off.”

Paul’s body was incredibly tense, stiff, almost awkward, but his voice was dry as he murmured, “I don’t have regular vacation time. I’m still on probation, you know.”

“You deserve a vacation anyway. You won’t be able to work when we’re camping, so you might as well stop now.”

He evidently ignored her dubious logic and relented to her attempt to comfort him because he started to adjust her on his lap, until they both were more comfortable. Then his arms went around her again, just as tightly as before.

They just held each other for a few minutes. Emily felt the heat of his body, felt the hard lines of his chest against hers, felt the tension in his muscles gradually start to relax as his uneven, ragged breathing slowed down.

Her body responded strangely as his body softened against hers. An ache of desire clenched between her legs, growing even deeper as his body relaxed even more. It was an inexplicable reaction, since there was nothing sexual or even romantic about their embrace.

But she was definitely becoming aroused from the intimacy, the closeness, the entitlement with which Paul was holding her, and she shifted restlessly in his lap in response to the throbbing at her center.

Paul’s body felt softer now, except for the tightness of his arms around her. But, as she shifted, she felt another part of his body that was no longer soft.

She moaned throatily at the way the bulge in his trousers felt against her thigh. She rubbed herself against it instinctively.

“Baby, don’t,” Paul said thickly, after his breath had hitched.

“But I want to.” She moved both hands up to tangle her fingers through his thick hair. “Paul, I want to.” They’d only had sex the one time because she’d gotten sick the following day. Since he’d claimed to enjoy it, though, she assumed it wasn’t supposed to be a one-time event.

“I know.” He eased backward in his chair, trying to withdraw from her. “But we can’t.”

She stiffened with a sharp stab of hurt and disappointment. “You really don’t want to have sex with me ag—”

“I do,” he interrupted, his body almost painfully tense again. “I promise I do. But I can’t right now. I…I just can’t.”

Since he sounded serious—and rather upset—she dropped her hands to his shoulders. She also stopped trying to rub against his erection. “Why not?”

When he glanced away without responding, her fingers tightened on his shoulders reflexively. “Paul, you have to tell me.”

“You know the mood I’ve been in today,” he explained hoarsely, his face twisting slightly as if the words resisted being spoken. “I’m still in that same mood. I can’t take you to bed when I’m like this. I couldn’t restrain myself. I might…I might hurt you.”

Emily gasped, astonished, overwhelmed, and—ludicrously—just a little bit thrilled. She took a deep breath to process what he’d said, what he’d meant. Then she said, “I don’t think you’d hurt me. I can…I can take what you give me.”

Paul closed his eyes and looked away sharply, as if he were trying to hold back some sort of ferocity, but his expression was sober when he met her eyes again. “I won’t do it. Not when I’m like this. It’s just your second time.”

She didn’t like the idea that she wasn’t up to any challenge, and she definitely didn’t like the idea that she wasn’t able to offer Paul what he needed. But part of her could realize the reasonableness of his concern. He had been incredibly gentle and patient last time, and it had still been really uncomfortable—she’d still been really sore afterwards. While she hoped it would be better the next time, her body just wasn’t accustomed to sex yet.

She drew her brows together. “You really think you’d hurt me?”

“I might,” he admitted. “In this mood, I would want to be…rough.”

She felt that hot, little thrill again at the idea of rough sex with Paul, but she smothered it because this was real life with real stakes and not some naughty fantasy. “I trust you, Paul,” she told him, with absolute honesty. “I just don’t think you’d hurt me.”

He made sound in his throat she didn’t quite understand and looked away from her again. “Thank you. But I don’t trust myself enough to risk it.”

She could tell he meant it, and it wouldn’t be fair for her to argue about it anymore or make him feel guilty. So she was disappointed but strangely touched as she climbed off his lap. “Okay. It’s really okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said with a genuine smile. She tried for a teasing tone to break the thick tension. “You’re going camping with me, aren’t you? I know what a sacrifice that is for you. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

* * *

It poured down rain that night.

The clouds had rolled in as the day progressed, but it wasn’t raining when they got to the campsite. And it wasn't raining when they set up their tent in a beautiful private spot surrounded by trees and only a short walk from the beach.  And it was overcast but still not raining when they grilled marinated chicken breasts, corn on the cob, and peaches for dinner and watched the sun set.

Paul’s mood had improved as the day went on, and Emily enjoyed the evening very much. While they were in a national park, it felt like they were the only ones around. It was too late in the season for there to be a lot of people camping out, and the natural beauty and the privacy were tranquil.

It looked increasingly like it might rain, so they put the grill and other supplies back into the rented SUV they were driving, so they wouldn't get wet overnight. It got dark earlier than they were used to, so it was only eight o'clock when they went over to the public washroom and shower facilities to get ready for bed, since neither one of them were particularly interested in primitive camping. Emily put on a sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants to sleep in because the temperature was dropping rapidly.

It started to sprinkle on their way back, but Emily made it into their very expensive two-room tent without getting too wet. They’d set up the self-inflating air mattress made for camping and the rest of the bedding in the tent earlier, and she happily puttered around, organizing various supplies they might need during the night and zipping up one of the screened vents they'd left open earlier.

Paul, however, had stopped by the back of the SUV to grab a small cooler of bottled water, since Emily was afraid she’d get thirsty before morning.

He got caught in the sudden downpour and was drenched by the time he reached the tent.

“Damn,” he muttered, leaning over to get in through the flap and then fastening it tightly behind him. “It couldn’t have waited two more minutes?”

Emily couldn’t help but snicker, although she was sure she wouldn’t have found it funny had she been the one getting drenched. When he gave her a peeved look, she smiled at him apologetically and handed him a towel she’d had the foresight to bring into the tent earlier.

Paul wiped the water off his hair and face and then took off his soaked t-shirt so he could dry off his damp chest too.

She looked on with interest, admiring the strong, graceful muscle tone of his chest, arms, and abdomen.  It was very dark outside, and the room of the tent was lit only by the light of two lanterns. It cast odd but strangely compelling shadows on Paul's body.

When he caught her looking at him, she gave him a bright smile. “Sorry you got so wet.”

“It’s fine.” He reached over toward the stack of his neatly folded clothes in a corner of the tent. “What’s a little water?”

Emily listened to the rain pound on the tent above her as she watched Paul pull on a dry black t-shirt. “It sounds like a lot of water. I guess we’ll see how well your luxury tent holds up.”

“Your luxury tent. It was your birthday present.”

She reached over and grabbed a sweatshirt to hand to him. “You should wear this. It already feels kind of cold out, and it will just get colder with the rain.”

He took the sweatshirt and seemed to consider it. Then he shook his head. “I don’t like to sleep in long sleeves. I’ll put it on later if I’m cold.”

She started to argue, mostly because camping was her idea and she hated the thought of his getting too cold, but he was perfectly capable of deciding whether he needed a sweatshirt or not, so she bit back her automatic objection. He usually didn’t even sleep with a shirt on, so she supposed he was compromising by wearing the t-shirt. Instead, she said, “So, seriously, do you think this tent will hold up to the downpour?”

“It better. It was marketed as the best—made to use in four seasons and to withstand any sort of weather.”

He was wearing the jeans he’d had on all day because, she assumed, he hadn’t wanted to change into his pajama pants in the public restrooms like she had. He started to undo the top button of his wet pants but then glanced over at her.

She smiled again. She supposed she could have gone into the sleeping room of their tent to give him some privacy, but she didn't really want to. “I’ve seen everything you’ve got,” she teased. “Don’t be shy on account of me.” She was genuinely amused by his expression, but she was also trying to cover a little self-consciousness with irony. There was something oddly personal about watching him undress in a context that wasn't sexual.

Paul couldn’t restrain a chuckle as he shucked his wet jeans, a little awkwardly because of the space limitations in the tent and the wetness of the fabric. He didn’t take off his underwear, so she assumed they hadn’t gotten wet.

His long, masculine legs were well worth looking at as he pulled on his pajama pants.

She was sitting on a comfortable folding chair, and she accepted the bottle of water Paul offered her with thanks. She started to take a sip but gasped a little when a strong gust of wind whipped at the fabric of their tent.

“Seems to be holding up,” Paul said, pausing to observe the stability of the tent. “If it fails us, we can sleep in the back of the SUV.”

“That’s not the same. Camping should take place in a tent.”

"Then we'll have to trust the tent. Were you ready for bed, or did you want to do something?"

Emily reflected for a moment. Sex was obviously off the table because of Paul's mood that day, and she wasn't feeling particularly inclined in that direction anyway. She could read. Or she could see if Paul had any ideas for entertainment. But it was so dark it felt like it should be much later at night than it was, and she was getting tired. So she concluded, "I think I'll just go to bed."

She didn't assume that Paul had to go to bed at the same time, but she was pleased when he followed her into the second room of the tent without comment.

She looked in satisfaction at the high-quality air bed, made up temptingly with pillows, sheets, and queen-sized sleeping bag. She'd never camped very much as she was growing up, but the few times she had before had been uncomfortable in a number of ways. These sleeping arrangements didn't seem uncomfortable at all.

She crawled under the sleeping bag, and Paul got in beside her. She immediately scooted over to cuddle up against him. That was how they normally fell asleep now, and the rain and dark night made her want to snuggle even more than usual. She sighed with pleasure when he wrapped his arms around her.

“If you get too cold, we can’t stay out here. I’m not going to risk your getting sick.”

“I’m not going to get sick. I feel perfectly warm right now.” She did. Paul’s body always generated wonderful heat, and the sleeping bag was the kind that was supposed to be good for sub-zero temperatures. The tent was supposed to hold in heat too, so she figured they were protected on all fronts.

The sheets of rain pounding down on the tent were unsettling, even though the tent itself never leaked. She could smell the outdoors, the dirt, the rain, and she jerked in surprise every time a gust of wind blew violently against their tent.

“You okay?” Paul asked, after a few minutes in silence. He’d turned off the lanterns and they were surrounded now by nothing but pitch darkness.

“Yeah. It’s a little strange, since I’ve never really been a camping person, and I'm not used to it. Even in the tent, I feel a little…exposed. But it’s kind of cool really, as long as the tent doesn’t collapse.”

“If it collapses, someone is going to hear about it.”

She laughed softly at his dry voice in the darkness. "Like everyone heard it from you today?"

"Yeah," Paul muttered. He shifted slightly. "Sorry about that."

"That's okay. Everyone gets in a bad mood occasionally. Even me."

Paul's huff of amusement blew gently against her hair. "That I can believe."

She liked the fondness in his voice, even though she couldn't see his face. She burrowed against his heat, loving the feel of his lean, hard body against hers and the strength of his arms around her. She didn't even mind that he was wearing a shirt, although she liked his bare chest better.  “It actually would be kind of nice to sleep out under the stars. I think that’s what I was imagining when I wrote the list.”

“Maybe we can tomorrow night. If it’s not raining or too cold. We’ll have plenty of time to commune with nature tomorrow.”

She smiled at the thought. “I hope it doesn’t rain all day. That would suck.”

“The weather report said there were just supposed to be occasional showers this weekend.”

“Good.” She shifted against him, feeling cozy but not really sleepy. She supposed this could have been a romantic moment, cuddled up next to her husband in the middle of a rainstorm. But she didn’t have any desire to take off her clothes, and in her baggy sweatshirt and thick pajama pants, she wasn’t feeling remotely sexy.

She felt very pleasant. But not sexy.

She adjusted her position again, trying to get used to the feel of the air mattress. It really wasn’t too bad—certainly much better than sleeping directly on the ground. It wasn’t like a normal bed, though.

In the midst of her wriggling, she felt something surprising against her middle. She shifted against it again experimentally.

Paul’s breath hitched.

“Oh,” she said, surprised and oddly gratified by the feel of his obvious arousal poking into her. She couldn't understand why he'd gotten turned on, since he couldn't see her and she was wearing thick, baggy clothes, but it made her proud nonetheless. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, in a slightly aggrieved voice. “But you might rethink all that squirming next time.”

“I wasn’t squirming. I was just trying to get comfortable.”

“Either way…”

Emily started to feel a little guilty, since she could now sense a visceral tension in Paul’s body, in addition to the feel of his substantial erection beneath the soft fabric of his pants. While it was nice to get an ego boost, she didn’t really want Paul to suffer. “I’m sorry. Is it really frustrating for you, since you’re in that mood and can’t do anything about it?”

There was a strangely resonant pause, broken only by the lashing of rain against their tent. Paul held himself very still as he said, “I’m not in that mood anymore. If you wanted to, we could have sex.”

“Oh.” Emily tried to peer at his face, but—even though her eyes had adjusted some to the deep darkness—it was just too dark to see anything more than the general shape of his head.

She was torn. Part of her thought it was crazy—absolutely crazy—to turn down sex when Paul was offering it. But the other part of her wasn’t really in the mood, since she hadn’t been expecting it and she was too cozy right now to undress or get urgent and sweaty.

“We don’t have to,” he said mildly, evidently reading her hesitation correctly, “if you’re not in the mood.”

“You know I really want to have sex with you normally. It’s just kind of cold,” she explained. “And I’d have to take my clothes off. And I didn’t think we could today, so I wasn’t—”

“It’s fine, Emily. Believe it or not, I can make do without sex.”

She giggled at his irony, but there was something in the words and in his bland tone that she thought was remarkably sweet. She stretched up in the general direction of his head. She planted a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his lips. It felt like it landed on his chin, so she moved up a little until she reached his mouth.

He kissed her back, his tongue gently exploring her lips and then nudging questioningly into her mouth.

The kiss was very nice. She reached one hand up to stroke the nape of his neck like she was learning he really liked. She felt more tender than aroused, but she enjoyed the sensation of his skillful mouth against hers, his hot, tense body against her, even with several layers of clothing between them. She loved the low moan he made into the kiss as she caressed his neck.

It was the strangest feeling. She’d never understood she could feel this way. She didn’t feel any pressing desire for an orgasm herself, but something thrilled inside her at being close to Paul, at pleasing him, at being there for him.

When he pulled his mouth away, she murmured, feeling strangely shy, “We can. I don’t mind.”

His muscles tightened palpably, but his voice was controlled—just a little thick—as he replied, “No. We’re not going to do it unless you’re in the mood too.”

She started to argue but decided against it. Instead she leaned over to kiss him again, missing at first but shifting until she was able to settle her lips against his once more.

He responded immediately, one of his arms tightening around her and the other hand sliding down to cup her bottom, pressing her pelvis gently against his.

Feeling a surge of pleasure—more emotional than physical—Emily eased her hand in between their bodies until she found the length of his erection through his pajama pants. He groaned against her mouth and jerked his hips slightly when she gently squeezed.

He tore his mouth away, breathing raggedly. “I’m sorry, baby. If we’re not going to have sex, we better stop.”

Her heartbeat had accelerated, and pleasure and tenderness coursed through her. “But I wanted to do this,” she breathed, applying gentle pressure to his arousal. “Can’t we just do this?”

“You want to…” Paul was so tense from leashed desire now he was almost shaking, and she really wished she could see his face.

She squeezed him intimately again and stroked his neck with her other hand, loving the way the texture of his hair mingled with his warm skin. “I was liking it,” she told him, feeling a little embarrassed but not enough to withdraw. “Is it not good for you?”

Paul released the most textured groan she’d ever heard, the sound doing something intense to her chest and even generating a little ache between her legs. “Yes, it’s good. If you’re sure…”

She kissed him again. Then said against his lips, “I’m sure. I like it.”

Before she’d even articulated the last word, he’d claimed her mouth again in a deep kiss. Very daring, she slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his pajama pants so she could get a better grip on his erection.

She’d never really given a hand job before, and she wasn’t exactly sure how to best do it. But she loved the feel of his hard, hot flesh under her palm, and he started making little pumps of his hips, so she figured that was the rhythm he wanted.

She tried to keep kissing him, but she started to lose her coordination as she got so excited about the way his body grew more intense, hot, tight. It felt like something had coiled inside him, about to be unleashed.  And it thrilled her. It thrilled her.

She massaged him as best she could, responding to the urgent little thrusts he started to make into her hand. But sustaining the kiss was soon beyond her.

It seemed beyond him too. His mouth broke away, and he panted erratically against her hair.

She could sense the change in his body. He radiated heat, and the carnal tension shuddered all through him. The slight jerking of his hips got faster.

“Oh, fuck, baby. I’m going to…I’m going to…”

She was holding her breath now, pumping him hard and fast. Then she felt him unleash, let go, release.

He came with a hard groan, his body freezing for a moment before it let go. She kept squeezing him through the contractions, and he mumbled out words—she couldn’t recognize any of them except "baby" and her name.

She was overwhelmed with pleasure, with tenderness, with emotion so deep she couldn’t find a name for it. Her fingers had tightened on the back of Paul’s neck in her excitement, and she was afraid she might have scratched him. She softened her grip and stroked him gently again. Then she released his softening erection, caressing him there a few final times.

Her hand was a little sticky from his come, but she didn’t mind. It made her feel almost proud of herself in a silly way. When she pulled her hand out of his pants, she sat up until she could reach the box of tissues she’d brought with her. She wiped off her hand and then cleaned Paul up too.

Paul was still gasping, lying limply on the mattress. When she'd cleaned up as best she could in the dark, she cuddled up happily next to his hot, replete body.

“Thank you.” He pressed a light kiss into her hair. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” she told him. Since the only part of him she could easily reach was his shoulder, she kissed him there over his shirt. “I liked it.”

“I can take care of you now if you want.” He sounded warm and drowsy, like he wouldn't mind going to sleep, but she was sure the offer was genuine.

“I’m good,” she said. She’d gotten a little turned on, but not enough to make it worth the effort of trying to reach orgasm when she was so cozy and content as it was.

“Maybe later.” He adjusted, pulling her into his arms more securely.

“Definitely later,” she agreed. She nestled against him, listening to the rain. It didn’t sound so torrential now, and the tent was still nice and dry. The air was very cool, but she was warm with Paul under the sleeping bag.  “I think I like camping,” she murmured, rather foolishly. It felt like she might drift off to sleep at any moment.

Paul sounded like he was about to fall asleep as well. “Maybe I like it too.”

TEN

Emily was looking hot and flushed, and Paul was getting worried.

They’d been hiking for over an hour, and they’d left the woodland trail a while ago because Emily said it felt too commercial and not authentic enough to the PEI experience. By that, he assumed it didn’t feel as much like Anne of Green Gables as she wanted.

He hadn’t minded leaving the trail. They had a well-detailed map of the area, including all of the established hiking trails. He also had a top-of-the-line hiking navigator that was ultra-durable and waterproof and came equipped with high-sensitivity GPS, barometric altimeter, electronic compass, and an enormous collection of preloaded maps. He wasn’t worried about their getting lost, and he had been finding the trail a little boring himself, especially since they kept running into other tourists who all seemed to want to chat.

But Emily’s face was red now, and her skin was damp with perspiration. He started to get prickles of concern. The last time she’d gotten a fever, it had come on her without warning and had spiked in just an hour or two.

They were walking through a thickly wooded area that occasionally thinned out into little meadows, ponds, or creeks. They’d plotted a route on Paul’s navigator that would take them from the place they left the trail through the woodlands and then back along the beach until they reached where they’d parked the SUV.

“How are you feeling?” Paul asked, when he’d glanced over at Emily again and saw that she still looked troublingly hot.

She gave him a confused look. “I’m fine. I’m in decent shape, you know. I’m not going to collapse from a few miles of hiking.”

“I didn’t think you were. I was just wondering how you were feeling in general.” Because he couldn’t resist, he reached over and felt her forehead.

She made an annoyed sound in her throat and pulled away. “I’m fine, Paul. I’m not sick. It’s just getting hotter, and I wore too many clothes. It was cold this morning.”

It was midday now, and the temperature had indeed risen significantly from where it had been this morning. Paul had taken off the long-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing over his t-shirt this morning and was now just wearing a pair of casual khakis and the white t-shirt. Emily had taken off her zip-up sweatshirt, but she was still wearing her jeans and a long-sleeved white undershirt with a green t-shirt layered over it.

“Take off one of your layers,” he suggested.  The trees had thinned some, and they reached a clearing where a creek trailed picturesquely through the woods. Beside it were several large rocks. “We need to stop and eat lunch anyway. Do you want to stop here?”

Emily seemed to think this was agreeable. As Paul unpacked their lunch from the backpack he carried, Emily took off her t-shirt. Then, with a sheepish look in his direction, she took off her undershirt and pulled her t-shirt back on.

Paul tried not to look at her in her bra, since he didn’t want to start thinking about sex midway through their hike.

They ate their packed lunch of sandwiches, grapes, chocolate cookies, and bottled water, chatting companionably about the Green Gables sights they had seen that morning and what they were going to do later in the day.

Emily was still hoping to be able to sleep out under the stars tonight, although Paul was worried because the sky at the moment was completely overcast. It had been mostly clear that morning, but now there was nothing but thick clouds overhead. He hoped it wouldn’t rain, so she would be able to sleep outside like she wanted.

He didn't really care if they slept outside or in the tent. He was mostly just hoping for sex tonight.

He’d loved how she’d taken care of him the night before—it had felt amazing in every way and had given him a intense physical and emotional release, one he’d desperately needed yesterday—but he wanted to make sure he could give to her as much as she’d given to him.

When they’d eaten, they picked up their stuff and started to walk again, following the route in Paul’s navigator. He figured they had about another half-hour before they reached the beach again, and then another half-hour before they reached their car.

Emily looked cooler now that she’d shed her extra shirt, and she still appeared bright and energetic. She kept mentioning spots she saw that looked like places in the Anne books, and Paul pretended he found the connections intriguing. He was glad Emily was having a good time. He didn’t mind hiking, but he had very little interest in a series of books for girls about a red-haired orphan who had a clear case of melodramatics.

He wasn't about to complain, though. Being here felt different, distanced, from the life they'd left in Philadelphia. Emily's last bout of fever and the aftermath—during which Paul had been almost crippled with wondering how he could possibly get through Emily's worsening illness and death—had weighed him down emotionally until he could barely breathe. Being with her lightened the burden sometimes, and being this far away, all by themselves, had lightened it a lot more.

It would just be temporary, but he'd needed it.

Twenty minutes later, Emily jerked to a stop, staring at a tree to their left.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“We already passed that tree,” she said, gesturing toward a small white birch. “Look, it has this weird forked branch here. I saw it before.”

Paul checked his navigator. “No. We couldn’t have. We haven’t looped back.” He showed her the small screen, which clearly indicated they were on the correct route.

Emily frowned. “Okay. Maybe it’s just an identical tree.”

They kept walking for a few minutes. Then Emily gasped and tugged on his arm to get him to stop. She crossed over in front of him and made her way through the space between some trees. “Look! That’s where we ate lunch!”

Paul followed her and froze in astonishment when he saw that she was correct. They’d somehow gone in almost a circle and ended up where they'd been a half-hour ago. “What the hell?”

He stared down at the navigator, checking back to see what it displayed as the route they’d just walked. Emily peered over to look with him.

“This thing is definitely confused," he admitted, feeling a swell of frustration tighten in his chest. He’d been focused on following the navigator and so hadn’t been paying much attention to the landmarks. "I wonder what's wrong with it.”

“It’s broken,” Emily said, looking from the screen up to his face. “What a piece of junk.”

“It cost a fortune!” He glowered down at the little device in his hand. "It shouldn't be a piece of junk. I wonder what…" He fiddled with it for a few minutes, hoping to find the trick to restore its routing capabilities.

Evidently getting tired of watching him fiddle with it, Emily said briskly, “Just give it up. The more expensive a gadget is, the more dramatically it will fail. We have a map. And I have a GPS app on my phone that might help.”

“I do too.” Paul lowered the little navigator in disgust and swung the backpack off his back so he could pull his smartphone out.

“No reception,” Emily said, frowning down at her phone. “We had reception earlier.”

“Maybe we’re just in a dead spot.” Paul checked his and found the same thing.

“Well, people used to do this all the time without the help of gadgets. I’m sure we can manage to muddle our way out of the woods without technology.”

Paul felt frustrated and annoyed by the failure of his navigator and by the fact that he’d led Emily around in circles unwittingly. He looked up at the sky. “It’s too cloudy to see where the sun is or at least we could tell what direction we were going.”

Paul glared down at the expensive piece of junk he was holding and muttered out valedictions on its head, as well as on the heads of everyone who made it and sold it to him.

Emily chuckled. “Don’t be grumpy. It’s not the end of the world.”

“We’re lost in the middle of the woods with no GPS,” Paul said, arching his eyebrows at her coolly, vaguely annoyed that she wasn't as annoyed as he was.

“We’ll figure it out. You’re just annoyed because you have major control issues.” She slanted him an almost teasing look. “Has anyone ever told you that before?”

He couldn’t quite keep his lip from twitching, despite the exasperating situation. “Not in so many words.”

“Well, someone should have told you that a long time ago. Things get messed up. That’s the nature of the world.”

Paul preferred for that not to be the nature of his world, but in this case there was nothing he could do about it. His navigator was broken, and their cell phones had no reception.

Since they were off the trail, there was no one around. He assumed if they just kept walking in one direction, they would eventually get somewhere they could locate. He didn’t want Emily to have to walk for miles, however, only to discover they had miles left to walk.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out something else.

“What’s that?” Emily asked.

“It’s a panic button,” he explained. “Connected to my security detail.”

“What?” she demanded, her eyes widening in what looked like outrage. “I thought you said we didn’t need to have security on this trip!”

“We don’t. At least, not following us everywhere. But I’d rather be careful—my dad still has connections in prison, you know—so a couple of my bodyguards are staying not far from our campground. If I press this, they’ll come find us.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “It’s not an emergency situation yet. Can we at least try to figure it out on our own before you call in the cavalry?”

Paul exhaled in frustration. He didn’t want to upset her, but there was absolutely no reason for them to be lost when there was something simple he could do about it. “I don’t want you to have to wander around aimlessly. We’re in the middle of the woods with no obvious landmarks and no way to tell direction. What do you suggest we do?”

“Well, give me a minute to think.” She frowned at him, obviously unhappy with his alacrity in calling for help. “I’m not Daniel Boone.”

“I assure you, neither am I.”

“We want to go north. Wherever we are, we’ll hit the coastline that way. Do you think that moss trick really works?” she asked, after thinking for a minute. “Does moss really grow thickest on the north side?”

Paul made a face, trying to be patient and not just hit the panic button whether she wanted him to or not. “I doubt it, but we could look. Do you see any moss?”

They looked around for a minute and found a rock covered with moss. Unfortunately, it was covered completely with moss, and they couldn’t tell one side that looked thicker than the other.

Emily was obviously disappointed by this discovery.

“Oh,” she said, perking up. “Somewhere I heard this trick for telling north. If you have a watch, you hold it out and then you put a stick over it and then there’s something about the shadow…and north is halfway between the stick and…” She trailed off, looking puzzled.

Paul gave a huff of amusement, although it was mingled with frustration. “Between the stick and the shadow?” he asked dubiously.

She scowled at him. “Don't be snide. There is a trick. I just can’t remember it.”

“Well, it wouldn’t matter. There’s so much tree cover here and cloud cover today, there’s not much in the way of shadows to use anyway. If we had shadows, I could just make a sundial.”

“Damn it,” Emily said, shaking her head as if the most obvious idea had just come to her. “We can’t be that far from the beach. I’m just going to climb a tree. I should be able to see the ocean if I get high enough.”

“No,” Paul objected, stiffening at the idea. “You might get hurt.”

“For God’s sake, Paul, I was climbing trees when I was five years old. I’m not going to get hurt.”

“I’ll climb one,” he said, resigning himself to the fact that climbing a tree was the only appropriate way for this wretched hiking expedition to end. “If someone has to do it, I will.”

“Why should you do it?” Emily demanded. She was bristling now as much as he was, and her eyes flashed with indignation. “I’m a lot lighter than you. I’ll be able to get higher up more safely. I’m not an invalid. I can climb a damned tree!”

“This is my fault,” he said, not about to budge on this. “We’re lost because of me. So I’m the one who—”

“That’s crap. Paul, listen to yourself.  I’m the one who suggested we come here, so I can play the blame-game as much as you. But that’s not the point. You don't have to get annoyed because everything is not going perfectly, and you don't have to climb the tree for me. You don’t have to rescue me. You don’t have to fix everything. I’m not expecting you to do that. I’ve never expected you to do that.”

Paul froze, slammed by her words, by what they meant.

She was right. He did want to rescue her. He did want to fix her.

And he couldn’t do so in the way that really mattered.

“Paul,” Emily said, her voice softening. She reached out and put a hand on his chest. “I didn’t marry you because I expected you do everything for me. I married you because I thought you could help me do the things I wanted to do.”

Paul stared at her, breathing heavily and conflicted in ways he didn’t understand. He loved her. She was his. To him, that had always meant wrapping her tightly with his protection. If he was capable of climbing a tree, then he should do it and not her.

But he understood what she was saying. Deeply. And suddenly he realized he would feel the same way, if he was abruptly forced into helplessness because of an illness he couldn’t control. He wouldn’t want to give up all of his agency either, even to someone who loved him, who wanted to help him.

Emily was beautiful and radiant and resilient and sweet. But, in many ways that mattered, she wasn’t all that different from him.

For some reason, he'd never quite realized that before.

“Okay,” he forced out, the word harder than it should have been to say. “Okay.”

She blinked at him, her eyes anxious and somehow tender as well. “Okay?”

“Climb the tree. Be careful.”

Her face changed, twisted slightly with emotion, but it was so brief he couldn’t really put a name to it. Then she looked around at the trees surrounding them. "Which one do you think is the tallest?”

Paul spotted a huge birch tree several feet away. It had a thick trunk and several low branches. The leaves, unlike on the pine trees, wouldn’t get in the way of climbing.

Emily saw the tree too and ran over to it. “Perfect.” She reached for one of the branches and started to swing herself up.

Paul grabbed her by the waist and gave her a boost.  Despite the other things on his mind, he couldn’t help but appreciate the way her lush ass appeared in her faded jeans as she crawled up onto the first branch.

She grabbed a higher branch and pulled herself into a standing position, bracing herself on the trunk. She grinned down at him. “I haven’t climbed a tree in ages!”

He tightened his lips, trying not to climb up there after her to make sure she wasn’t going to fall. Restraining the impulse was harder than he liked to admit.

Emily was right in claiming that he had major control issues, but he usually kept those issues under better control.

“Please be careful,” he murmured, with what he thought was impressive mildness.

She peered down at him, and her expression relaxed into something warm and fond. “I will.”

Then he had to stand at the bottom and watch her climb the tree. It was quite a tall tree, although it looked so sturdy that there probably wasn’t any unusual danger in climbing it. But he still didn’t like it. Particularly when she got near the top. The leaf coverage mostly blocked his view, so he just caught uneven glimpses of her jeans and her gold hair.

Then he heard Emily shout down to him, “I see the ocean!”

He let out a sigh of relief and waited for her to climb back down. She stumbled a little as she dropped herself down from the last branch, and he caught her and pulled her into a hug.

She hugged him back, her body practically shuddering with excitement.

“Pretty proud of yourself for finding our direction,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

She laughed out loud. “Yes. Just call me Daniel Boone!”

He laughed too. And he realized there might be some benefits to going against his controlling, possessive instincts—if it made Emily as happy as this.

* * *

The clouds cleared, and the stars came out that night.

By the time they finally returned to their SUV, the clouds were starting to break up. They were both tired when they returned to their campground in the afternoon. So Emily took a nap while Paul lounged in a chair and worked through some email on his smartphone, which fortunately could get reception from there.

Emily hadn’t wanted him to work during the weekend, but he figured it was all right when she was sleeping.

They grilled steaks for dinner and ate them with pasta salad. Then, at Emily’s suggestion, they built a fire and toasted marshmallows for s’mores.

Paul enjoyed the evening more than he’d expected. Despite the fact that camping would never be his favorite activity, it was nice to feel all alone in the world with Emily. They felt far away from everything—including her illness, including the doctors, including her impending death. To his surprise, Paul managed to relax. He was feeling pretty good when they went to the shower facilities to clean up before bed, as they had the night before.

Since the clouds had blown away completely, leaving the dark sky teaming with stars, Paul couldn’t object when Emily demanded that they sleep outside tonight.

They hauled the air mattress out of the tent and made up the bed again between the tent and the SUV. He’d left the lights of the SUV on while they worked, so they would have plenty of light, but then he turned them off, leaving only the fire to illuminate the campsite.

Emily was obviously thrilled by the effect, and she climbed under the sleeping bag happily, looking over to him expectantly when he didn’t move. Like the previous night, she wore flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt, so at least she wouldn’t get cold, despite the nip in the air.

“Come look, Paul,” Emily called out when he emerged again from the tent, where he’d changed into pajama pants.

He went to join her and got into the sleeping bag. He rolled onto his back as she had and stared up at the sky.

“Look at them!” she breathed, gazing up at the brilliance of the stars.

Paul had never seen stars so bright. In Philadelphia, he could hardly see them at all, except from the terrace of the apartment—and even then they looked rather dim. But even in the outskirts there didn’t seem to be so many stars as this, and they didn’t twinkle so fiercely.

He smiled and turned his head to look at Emily. She was smiling too, and she met his eyes. They gazed at each other in silence for a moment, and Paul’s chest tightened with feeling.

Then she scooted over and pressed her mouth against his in a kiss.

He responded immediately, pulling her into his arms and rolling her toward him so she was sprawled on top of him. The kiss grew hungry very quickly—probably because Paul’s urgency got the better of him. His lips devoured her as his hands skimmed over her soft curves, settling on her ass and pressing her pelvis down against his. Even through the layers of thick clothing she wore, her body was warm and tempting.

Emily was soon as passionate as he was. She groaned and gasped against his mouth, and she wriggled against his body. Her hands clutched at his ribcage and then started fisting the fabric of his shirt.

It took Paul a minute to realize she was trying to pull his shirt off.

He broke the kiss for long enough to help her, yanking his t-shirt off over his head. She made a husky sound of satisfaction as her hands started to stroke his bare skin.

Paul’s groin was already throbbing, and the way Emily shamelessly squirmed against it was exquisite torture. With a moan, he rolled them over so she was on her back, and then he hurriedly started to remove some of her clothes.

She giggled when her sweatshirt got twisted up around her wrist. And she giggled again when she accidentally kneed him in the gut when he was trying to get off her pajama pants. Paul smiled but didn’t let himself laugh. He was so far gone now that, if he let himself laugh, he was afraid he would let go completely.

When she was finally naked, Paul slipped one hand between her thighs and was thrilled and gratified to feel how hot and wet she already was. She gasped and arched up when he fingered her gently.

The night air was cool on his bare skin, and the dying flicker of the fire cast orange light over Emily’s fair skin and rich curves. Paul stared down, mesmerized at the hot desire in her eyes, the way her lips parted, the way her neck arched in response as he pleasured her with his hand.

Then the sight of her luscious breasts, bared to his sight, tipped with very tight nipples, became too irresistible. He leaned down to take one in his mouth. He suckled her with as much skill as he could muster as he thrust two of his fingers rhythmically inside her.

“Oh God!” she gasped, “Oh Paul!” She huffed out a series of eager, breathless sounds that grew louder and louder as her body started to tighten. He could feel her shaking, feel her digging her fingernails into the back of his neck.

Then he felt her let go, coming in helpless spasms and shudders. He knew she’d come very hard—he could feel her clamping down around his fingers, and the contractions lasted a really long time. She was almost choking on the pleasure.

Wanting to make sure she got all the sensations he could give her, when the contractions finally lessened, he moved his thumb to her clit and massaged it thoroughly.

Emily arched up jerkily with a loud cry as another orgasm ripped through her. Her hips bucked up with the new sensations and kept riding out the waves on his fingers.

When she was through, the throbbing in Paul’s erection had become dangerously intense. He reared up, panting loudly and staring down at her again. Her body had relaxed, and her expression had shifted into a drowsy smile. “Wow,” she gasped. “That was…wow.”

With a muffled groan, he leaned down to kiss her hungrily again, overwhelmed with feeling, with primitive pride, with desire, with need. With need. With need.

“Oh baby,” he groaned, when he finally pulled out of the kiss. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah.” She was smiling as she fumbled beneath him until she’d managed to get her hands hooked around the waistband of his pajama pants.

Paul raised himself up some more so they could remove his pants. Then they were both naked under the sleeping bag, with the crisp night air and the light of the stars pulsing all around them.

He lined himself up at her entrance, briefly concerned that he’d have to hurt her again. But she was eager and impatient, and she didn’t let him dawdle. Soon, he was sinking inside her, and she was so, so tight, so wet and hot as her body gripped him hard.

She choked out a sound and arched up, but he thought it was from discomfort rather than pleasure. He held himself perfectly still and tried to focus enough to see her expression.

She’d closed her eyes and turned her head.

“All right?”

“Yeah. Just give me a second. Who would have thought you’d be so ridiculously big?”

He bit back a laugh, since laughter would be a mistake at this stage. His arms shook as he braced himself above her on the air mattress, and he had to force himself not to thrust.

“Okay,” she breathed, after not very long. Her body was beginning to soften now, relax. “I’m good.”

When she smiled up at him, he had to kiss her. It was lovely—a little clumsy but passionate on both sides—but then her inner muscles clenched around him, and it was so incredibly good that he reared up with a hoarse exclamation.

To his surprise, she giggled. “Was that good or bad?”

“Good,” he said, managing to get it together enough to press another kiss against her lips. “But if you make it that good for me too often, it won’t be very good for you.”

She clenched around him again, and he bit his lip over a groan. “Emily,” he warned.

She stroked his neck gently, distracting him with the pleasure the light touch aroused. And then she tightened around him once more.

Unable to hold himself back, he began to rock his hips urgently, releasing a long, throaty sound as the friction intensified both his pleasure and his primal need. She started to move her hips with his. And occasionally he’d feel another hard intimate clench.

The pressure in his balls tightened so quickly there was nothing he could do to hold it back. He tucked his head to the side and tried to make himself stop, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t. He thrust into her in fast, clumsy pumps, trying not to be too forceful, trying not to hurt her.

It didn’t seem to be hurting her. If her eager little gasps were any evidence, she was enjoying it as much as he was. Her hands had slipped under his arms, around his ribcage again. And her fingers were starting to claw at him as her own motion got more urgent and enthusiastic.

His vision blurred over as his body was washed with waves of hot and cold. He knew he was about to come, but he clenched his jaw and tried desperately not to come too soon, not to come before she did.

“Oh Paul,” she gasped, tossing her head back and forth beneath him. Her features were twisted with pleasure and effort. “It’s so good. Gonna come!”

“Yes,” he hissed, his hips completely out of his control now. He was rocking into her fast and hard, overwhelmed by how it felt to be moving inside her like this. “Come, baby. Come."

She dug her fingernails into his back and clawed lines there. The pain only intensified his pleasure. “Yeah. Oh God!” Her eager huffing suddenly transformed into a loud, hoarse cry as her body erupted beneath him, thrashing clumsily as she tried to ride out her orgasm.

“Emily,” Paul bit out. “Oh, fuck.” His pelvis jerked helplessly as the agonizing pressure clenched like a fist, and then it all unleashed, spasming out in hot, deep waves of pleasure.

He came hard, the release ripping through him almost brutally. The pleasure continued as he came inside her, emptying himself, filling her.

He collapsed on top of her the way he had the first time. She gathered him in her arms, panting as helplessly as he was.

After a minute, her hands started to stroke his back. He still couldn’t seem to lift his head.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently, after another long moment.

“Yeah,” he managed to say.

His body had relaxed, his arousal had softened. He felt deliciously sated.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

He kissed her neck a little clumsily but couldn’t seem to focus enough yet to have a real conversation. “Yeah. Give me a minute.” She didn’t understand—she couldn’t understand—how much sex with her took out of him.

It leveled him. Physically and emotionally.

After a minute, he managed to pull out of her. He rolled over onto his back, exhausted and replete. He turned his head to smile at her.

She smiled back and scooted over so she was cuddled up at his side. Instead of wrapping an arm around his middle like she normally did, she lay on her back so she could look at the sky too.

“We’re pretty good together,” she said. “At least, I think so.”

“No doubt about it.” Then, because he felt like she needed to know it, even if it made him more vulnerable than he was comfortable with, he added, “Best sex I’ve ever had.”

When she brightened with pleasure and surprise, he was glad he’d told her the truth.

But then her mouth quirked. “Me too.”

He chuckled and squeezed her with one arm.

“Have you ever seen stars like this?” she asked, gazing up at the sky.

“Never,” he admitted.

“Thanks for taking me here.” She turned her head for just long enough to press a kiss on his shoulder.

Paul released a long breath, trying to force from his mind the bleak reality he knew was waiting for him when he returned to Philadelphia. He felt too good—Emily felt too good beside him—for him to process all of that now.

All he said was, “Thanks for taking me.”

***

They got home from PEI at around ten o’clock on Sunday evening.

Paul was usually pleased to return to the apartment—since it was as close to home now as anywhere else—but tonight he felt a deep heaviness sink onto him as soon as they walked in the door.

The art and furnishings were familiar and in their usual pristine order, since Ruth had come by earlier in the day to clean, stock the refrigerator, and put fresh flowers in the vases. Camping had been surprisingly enjoyable and intimate, despite the few inevitable annoyances, but it hadn’t felt real. Returning to Philadelphia was like returning to the real world.

And Paul had trouble thinking of anything but the fact that time was running out for Emily. She had a virus no one knew how to fight, a virus that was killing her more and more every day.

There was nothing he could do to stop it.

As soon as they’d gotten home, he’d gone to the study and called the private investigation firm. He’d been told—not for the first time—that they would have some progress to report by Wednesday, as promised. Then he’d called Dr. Franklin, who had told Paul what he always told him. He was looking, but so far there was nothing to try except the very unlikely long-shots.

Those calls were the only direct action Paul could take about finding a cure for Emily. So he sat behind his desk for almost a half-hour, staring blindly at his computer screen and trying to suppress his stewing angst and frustration.

His father might have the answer, but he’d vowed never to ask his father for anything again. That vow was as close to the core of his being as anything was.

But he couldn’t lose Emily. He just couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

There had to be something he could do to save her.

Even if he couldn’t keep her in his home, in his bed, in his life forever, at least she would be alive. At least she could be happy.

And now there was something else, nudging at the back of his mind. He couldn’t let himself think too far about this new possibility—since the faint hope hurt him so much—but he couldn’t help but occasionally wonder whether, if Emily lived, she might be persuaded to stay with him as his wife after all.

She obviously cared about him. Maybe…maybe…

It hurt too much to even hope.

And he had to save her first.

When he finally shook himself out of the brooding stupor, he tried to clear out some of the email that had collected while he was gone. Well before midnight, he just gave up.

He was too tired to think clearly, and he wanted to see Emily.

He found her in her bedroom. She’d just taken a bath, and she told him she was really tired too so she’d be coming to bed shortly.

So Paul went to take a shower to wash off the lingering remnants of camping. Emily was in bed when he emerged from the bathroom.

She didn’t seem very talkative tonight. In fact, she seemed unusually quiet. She was probably as tired as he was, though, and maybe she was feeling some of that same letdown on returning to the real world.

So Paul turned off the lights without saying much. He knew sex was off the table when she just cuddled up at his side, wrapping her arm around his middle and sighing a few times before mumbling goodnight. He’d taken care of himself in the shower—thinking she might be too tired for sex—so he wasn’t particularly pained by her decision.

She fell asleep almost immediately, but it took a long time for Paul to turn his mind off enough to sleep. He kept trying to find new options, come up with workable scenarios that would lead to a treatment for Emily.

Obviously, late night brooding led to nothing constructive. So, when he finally fell asleep, his arm still holding Emily tightly against him, his slumbers were shallow and restless.

Which was why he woke up immediately at almost three o’clock in the morning when Emily rolled away from his side.

He looked over at her in the dark room. She was huddled up in a ball, facing away from him. He reached over to feel her forehead and was relieved to discover she wasn’t unusually warm.

He tried to go back to sleep. He tried for countless minutes. But, so late at night, awake by himself in the dark, he couldn’t help but imagine with dread, with an agonizing pressure in his heart, how he would feel if Emily died.

He wasn’t sure how he would survive it. Just imagining it almost leveled him.

He tried to exert mental control and reorder his thoughts, focusing on the next item on Emily’s list—she wanted to climb to the top of a volcano.  There were any number of options for this, and he tried to figure out what she might enjoy most and what could be done with the least difficulties.

He’d almost succeeded in concentrating on this much more innocuous problem when he was suddenly aware that Emily was shaking on the other side of their bed.

He turned his head to look at her again. Saw her shoulders were definitely shaking. Then he heard a harsh intake of breath that she was obviously trying to hide.

He reached over and put a hand on her shoulder to pull her over toward him. “Baby, what is it?”

“Nothing.” She was obviously lying. Her whole body was shuddering now, and she was trying to pull away from his grip, pull into a protective ball. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing,” she tried again. She was still struggling to get away from him, but he wouldn’t release her. He managed to turn her over so she was facing him.

Even in the dark room, he could see her face twisting helplessly with an emotion she was trying to suppress.

He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, almost desperately. She was small and shaking helplessly. She felt broken, and he just couldn’t fix her.

He let her cry, fighting against the ache in his throat, but eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Emily, please. You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

“I try…” She eased away from him and peered at his face with dazed eyes and a wet face. After a couple of choked sobs, she started again. “I try not to feel sorry for myself.”

He made a guttural sound of objection. “Of course you don’t feel sorry for yourself. I’ve never seen anyone braver than you.”

“But…but…camping was so good. I loved it. I loved being with you. And…”

Paul understood. He felt it too. It was horrible, just horrible, to come back, knowing what was waiting for them. “I know. Me too.”

She sniffed and shook some more, burying her face against his bare chest. Then she pulled back enough to say in a weak voice, “I try to be brave and face reality without flinching, but I just don’t want to die.”

Suddenly, he realized how he might be able to help her. If not permanently, then at least for right now. “Maybe you don’t have to.” He was startled by the strained emotion in his voice, but there was no way he could hold it back. “Emily, you don’t have to just give up.”

She stiffened. “What? Paul, I don’t understand…”

“You told me you didn’t want to try out treatments, but maybe we can really look for one. We don’t know what’s out there. Maybe there’s something that can save you. We can try.”

She just stared at him in silence for a long time. Then finally, “But there is no treatment.”

“Maybe there can be. I have investigators looking into my dad’s research facility. I really think he has some sort of biological weapons there, and that might be the source of the virus. They might be able to find something. We might not be without hope.”

Again, she just stared mutely, her eyes wide in the dark.

“Emily, we don’t have to give into this. Maybe there’s some way we can fight it.”

“But…”

He didn’t quite know why she looked so baffled and overwhelmed, but at least she wasn’t angry. “We can try,” he concluded softly, thickly.

“You’ve been having them search for…to find a cure for me?”

Afraid she was going resent his doing it behind her back, he replied hurriedly, “Just to see…I assumed you’d want a cure if they found one. But obviously using it would be your choice. I just wanted to see. I thought it was worth a chance. Don’t you think so?”

“You were looking for a cure for me?” She actually sounded surprised.

Paul strangled on his indignation. “Of course, I was looking for a cure! Do you think I want you to die?”

“No.” She rubbed her face, wiping off the remaining tears. “I just thought…I didn’t think…”

He took her face between both of his hands. “I want you to live. I’ll do anything I can to make that happen.”

She swallowed visibly. Then whispered, “Thank you.”

A clench in Paul’s chest released slightly. He swallowed too. “So…so you’ll be willing to try a treatment if we come up with a possibility.”

She nodded. “As long as I don’t end up spending the last weeks of my life sick in bed because of experimental treatments, I’ll try.”

He groaned in relief and pulled her against him. “We’ll go talk to them on Wednesday and see what they’ve found. They're supposed to have a progress report by then.”

“Okay.” She shifted in his arms until she’d adjusted into a more comfortable position. She was holding him as tightly as he was her. “I never thought there could be a cure. I just assumed…”

“We don’t know,” Paul said, “We just don’t know. So we might as well try.”

He felt better now, like there was more hope now that Emily had agreed to hope with him.

She repeated, “We might as well try.”

* * *

“It’s not like we’re going to unlock a cabinet in your dad’s lab and find some serum in a test tube labeled ‘Cure for Mystery Virus’.”

Paul tightened his fist on his armrest and tried to keep his expression impassive.

By all recommendations, Jack Martin headed up one of the best private investigation firms in the city. He’d been professional in all of his dealings, and the report on all his team had done in the last week was certainly impressive.

But Paul didn’t like Martin at all. His hair was a mess, he needed to shave, and his perpetually laidback attitude about everything drove Paul crazy.

This was dead serious to Paul, so Martin should be taking it seriously too.

“I never suggested you’d find a magic serum,” Paul replied, an edge to his voice.

Martin appeared completely oblivious to the edge. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but this is what we’ve got.” His brown eyes turned from Paul to Emily, who was seated beside him. Martin’s expression softened imperceptibly. “Look, this whole thing is awful, and I wish I could pull a miracle out of a hat for you. But all we know is what we know. We’ve gotten into the facility and can confirm your father was definitely involved in research into biological weapons. I’ve found a couple of experts to help us figure out the data we’ve retrieved. It’s not easy, though. There’s a ton of it, and it’s high-level science stuff. Even my smart folks can’t make heads or tails of it.”

Paul had known this investigation would be complicated, but he didn’t like the sound of this at all. Interpreting scientific research results took a lot of time, particularly when you didn’t have all the background.

“After we do that, we still have to figure out if the source of this virus was your father’s lab. Then we have to figure out how to treat it.” Martin leaned back in his chair. “We’re all hands on deck in this, but I don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations about what we’re going to uncover and how long it’s going to take.”

Paul nodded, knowing the other man was right and trying not to resent him for it. He glanced over at Emily. She’d been quiet during this conversation, but she didn’t look disappointed. She mostly looked resigned.

She’d never been as hopeful about this appointment as Paul had.

She reached over and took his hand, as if she sensed he needed her support.

“I have a suggestion,” Martin added. When they both looked at him inquiringly, he continued, “There is one person who knows what the research facility has been doing and whether there’s anything like a cure for the virus there.”

Paul stiffened, and Emily’s hand tightened around his.

“You could ask your dad.”

Paul cleared his throat. “He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Maybe not. But he’s already been convicted. He has no play here. Unless you think he’s such a monster that he’d let your wife die just for fun, I don’t know why he’d hold onto the information at this point.”

“He is a monster.” Paul wasn’t certain about very much in life—not anymore—but he was certain of that.

“Paul,” Emily murmured, “I’m still not sure he would have given me this virus on purpose. Maybe its source was the research facility, but he didn’t contaminate me and my aunt intentionally.”

Martin nodded. “If that’s the case, he might have even more reason to tell you what we need to know.”

“I know that makes sense to you, but you don’t know him.” Paul turned to look at Emily. “You don’t know him either. Not like I do. I can’t go and ask him something like this. It would be exactly what he wants. He wants to get me back under this thumb. I’d be playing right into his hand.”

Emily’s face looked pained, but he could tell she was pained for him. It made him uncomfortable and was comforting at the same time.

“You have to believe me on this. If he did this to you, he’s never going to admit it. And if he didn’t do it, he has no information to share. If I thought there was a possibility of it working, I’d ask him in a heartbeat. But I can’t ask him for something when I know he won’t give it to me. It’s exactly what he wants.”

Emily squeezed his hand again. “Yeah. I understand. We’ll find another way.” She glanced over at Martin for confirmation.

He nodded. “Yep. We’ll find another way. We’re on it.”

Paul wondered what it would be like to be so easily confident.

He used to think he was like that himself.

Not so many months ago, really, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

* * *

After they left the office, they went out to lunch at a quiet French bistro. The food was good, but their conversation was scattered, as both of them tried not to dwell on the faint hope of Martin’s team coming up with something from the data they’d retrieved.

Emily asked how he’d found Martin’s name to begin with. Then she asked what volcano he thought she should climb.

Paul didn’t even want to think about the remaining items on her list. It seemed to imply she was going to die, and he refused to let himself believe that possibility. It wasn’t fair to not keep his word and help her get through her list, though, so he suggested they go to Hawaii, which wouldn’t be a hard trip and which had many impressive volcanoes that weren’t too difficult to climb.

Emily seemed pleased with this idea, and then she fell into a meditative silence.

When they got up to leave, she said she needed to use the restroom, so Paul waited outside the ladies room until she came out.

He straightened up in concern when she emerged. She looked paler than she had earlier, and her eyes looked a little pained. Her hair was damp around the hairline, as if she’d thrown water on her face.

“Paul,” she began, walking over to him slowly.

“Are you okay?”

“Do I have a fever?” When she reached him, she raised her hands to grip his shirt, like she felt unsteady on her feet.

He reached over to feel her forehead, and his heart sank as he sensed how hot her skin was. “I think you do.”

“Damn. Not so soon.”

“Let me get you home,” he said, supporting her with one arm and guiding her down the hall and out of the restaurant. Her body was swelteringly hot against him, and he tried to brace himself for at least two agonizing days of watching her suffer.

The restaurant host turned to give him a friendly farewell as they approached, but his face transformed with worry when his eyes took in Emily’s drooping figure.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Marino?” he asked in concern.

“Can you call my car, as quickly as possible?” Paul asked, relieved that he hadn’t driven himself, so they wouldn’t have to wait for a valet to get the car from a garage.

The host wasted no time in doing this. In the minute or two it took for the driver to pull the car to the curb in front of the restaurant, Emily seemed to completely wilt. He’d never seen one of her fevers come on her so quickly. She leaned her weight fully against his chest, clutching at him desperately, getting hotter and hotter as the moments passed.

Then her knees just buckled, and she would have collapsed to the floor had his arms not been around her. Instinctively, Paul adjusted his hold on her body and swung her up in his arms.

“Paul, no,” she mumbled weakly, hiding her face in his shoulder. “I can walk.”

“No, I don’t think you can.” He ached—all over—as he cradled her against him and carried her out to the sidewalk, where the car was pulling up.

She was small but not a waif, and she felt real and substantial in arms—hot and weak and shaking and sick and his.

He refused his anxious driver’s attempt to take Emily from his arms and instead carefully maneuvered her into the backseat himself. She fell to her side, unable to sit up, and curled herself up into a ball.

Paul swallowed hard, fighting growing panic at seeing how quickly she’d declined in this bout of fever. He gave curt instructions to his driver and accepted with thanks the cold, wet washcloth and bottles of cold water the restaurant host had hurriedly gotten for them. Then Paul got into the car quickly, climbing over Emily so he could sit on the opposite side of the seat beside her.

As the driver took them home, he wiped her feverish face and helped her lift her head from his lap to take an occasional sip of water. He also called Amy, who said she’d be over to the apartment in less than an hour.

They were almost home when Emily whispered brokenly, as she writhed with what looked like pain, “Paul, I’m scared. How did it get so bad so fast?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” He wiped her face once more, although the washcloth was no longer very cool. Then he exhaled in relief when the driver pulled into their private parking deck. “We’re home now. You’ll feel better when we can get your medicine.”

He desperately hoped she’d feel better. He would never tell her so, but he was scared too. The worse her fevers became, the fewer days she would have before the virus consumed her completely.

She had to stay alive for long enough for them to find a cure.

He carried her up to the apartment and then into her bedroom, where he gently laid her down in bed. She was completely out of it now, mumbling disconnected thoughts, almost delirious although not violently so. He managed to get her to swallow her pills without choking her.

Paul was so tense and anxious he could barely breathe as he carefully took her clothes off and put on instead a tank top and boxer shorts, like she always wore when she had fevers. It wasn’t easy, since she kept tossing restlessly, in obvious physical discomfort.

He wiped her face with another cool cloth, praying for the pills to take effect soon so she would feel better. When he saw her loose hair sticking to her face, he went into the bathroom and grabbed two elastic hairbands. Then he returned and gathered her messy hair into two ponytails as neatly as he could, being sure not to pull any stray hairs in a way that would hurt her.

There wasn’t anything else he could do but sit by her bed and keep wiping her face. She was mumbling under her breath still, and he could occasionally recognize a word. She said, “Paul,” more than once. And he thought he picked out the words “volcano” and "stars." But nothing she said made any real sense.

After several minutes, she started to shiver, so he put the washcloth up immediately and pulled the bedcovers up over her body. It took a minute, but eventually her shivering stopped.

Finally, the medication started to work, and the pained tension in her body relaxed just a little. She seemed to fall asleep for real. It wasn’t a peaceful sleep—it never was when she had a fever—but at least she wasn’t tossing around with her face twisting in pain.

Paul was able to breathe again, but he didn’t move from his chair. Ruth came in with a fresh bottle of water for Emily and a cup of hot tea for him he hadn’t requested. He drank it automatically, even though it was sweeter than he would prefer.

Amy should be here soon, but Paul wasn't planning to leave.

His eyes never left Emily’s pale face. She looked incredibly young in the two ponytails, vulnerable and so small. But her left hand was fisted in her bedcovers, and he could see his rings glinting on her finger there.

She was his wife, and she was strongest, bravest person he’d ever known. But she was also his to take care of, and there was very little he could do to help her.

There was one more thing, though.

One thing he’d vowed never to do. One thing with almost no chance of working.

The only thing left for him now.

He used to think he was strong—that there were certain things in his life on which he would never waver—but he wasn’t strong enough.

He loved her. Far more than he’d ever loved himself.

He would rip himself apart, from the inside out, if it would give her another day to live.

***

Paul felt like he might be sick.

It wasn’t fear, and it wasn’t anger or resentment as he’d always understood it. It was closer to the bleak acceptance of being stripped of all defenses and willingly led to slaughter.

He was sitting in the visiting room of a federal detention center, waiting for his father to be escorted out to talk to him. Emily’s fever had finally broken the day before—lasting just over forty-eight hours this time—but she was still weak and exhausted.

He hadn’t told her he was coming here today because he didn’t want her to worry about him.

Besides, Paul knew this was an act of final desperation that would almost certainly prove to be futile.

Then he saw his father—craggy face, gray hair, utterly self-contained expression—as he approached the table and sat down across from his son.

He didn’t greet Paul, but that was to be expected. Empty words gave too much away. That was a lesson his father had taught him very young.

When Paul didn’t speak, his father finally arched his eyebrows in amused arrogance. “This is your meeting. We can spend it in silence if you’d like.”

Lying in bed awake all last night, Paul had plotted out a carefully nuanced strategy for this conversation, but now he couldn’t remember any of it. He blurted out, “Emily is dying.”

“That’s not news to me. I was at the trial too.”

Paul hated the smug unconcern on his father’s face, although he knew it was put on for show as much as anything else. “I think the virus has the source in your research facility. I know you were working on biological weapons there. We have concrete proof.”

“If you have evidence, then why do you need me?”

“You know why. She’s eighteen. She’s innocent. And she’s dying. You’re already going to be in prison for life. You might as well just tell us what we need to know.”

Vincent Marino’s eyebrows rose even higher. “You think I had something to do with her illness?”

“I know you did.”

“Then what do you want from me? If I’m that man—the man you think I am—then what could you possibly want from me now?”

What Paul wanted from his father he would never get. He’d resigned himself to that truth years ago. Everyone had heard him say it out loud in the courtroom, so there was no mystery about it. No puzzle for his father to solve.

Instead, this was just a battle to him. A duel. A game of strategy.

Paul was too emotionally invested in this particular issue to ever come out ahead of his father in strategy, so he didn’t even try. “I want you to give us the information and research you have on the virus so we can find a cure.”

“If I did what you think, I’m surprised you’re even asking me such a thing.”

“I have nothing left to lose. I admit it. But your hand is played. You have nothing to win.”

“There’s always something to win. I know I taught you that…if nothing else.”

“I love her,” Paul admitted, the words ripped out of him without warning.

“I know that. It was more than obvious from watching you with her in the courtroom.”

Paul swallowed hard. “She’s going to die.”

“We all have our trials. What matters is what we do with them.”

This conversation had played out exactly as Paul had known it would. He wasn’t even angry.  The faint hope had been doomed from the start. “So you won’t help?”

“I can’t help. I’m not the monster you think I am. I didn’t do this.”  The words were almost convincing.

“I don’t believe you.”

His father shrugged. “You’re still young, and you still live your life looking for dragons to slay. It doesn’t always work like that. Sometimes the world is just brutal. For no particular reason. Without anybody to blame.”

Paul stared blindly and couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

It felt like his father had just signed Emily’s death warrant.

When Paul was thirteen and his parents were headed for divorce, he’d been both devastated and furious one night at seeing his mother cry.

His father had told him to toughen up.

Not long ago, Paul had believed himself to be tough.

He stood up. So abruptly his chair tipped backwards and hit the floor with a loud clatter.

His father smiled faintly. “I guess this is goodbye then. Give my best to your pretty wife.”

Despite everything else, those last words managed to hurt Paul.

He turned to leave. He wasn’t going to say anything more. He wouldn’t give his father the satisfaction of seeing him made even more vulnerable.

Paul only made it a couple of steps before he stopped and glanced back. “Why does it always have to be a war between us?”

Something changed on his father’s face. Not any sort of softening, but he looked older than he should have. And so, so tired.

Then Vincent Marino asked a final question, one that needed no answer. “When is life anything else?”

ELEVEN

Emily could feel the tension coiled in Paul’s body.

She was leaning against his side as they sat on the leather couch in Jack Martin’s office. Her own stomach twisted with a mixture of nerves and faint hope, and she realized Paul must feel the same. The muscles of his shoulders and abdomen were tight, and the arm he’d wrapped around her was gripping her just a little too hard.

It was strangely comforting—knowing Paul was just as anxious as she was.

“I don’t understand,” he said, sounding much more composed than she knew he felt. “How did this information just suddenly materialize now?”

Martin shrugged. He was a big man who was handsome in a laidback, unshaven way. Emily liked him. “I don’t know. The report surfaced last night, which is why I called first thing this morning. It’s a very complete report on an engineered virus that was being developed in your father’s research facility. It fits with what Mrs. Marino might have.”

“And you hadn’t found it on your earlier searches?”

“No. I had my computer guys search again, in case we missed something the first time, and it was only then they discovered this report.”

“Why was it missed the first time?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know. It shouldn’t have been. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t think it would have been missed. My people are careful.”

Emily looked over at Paul and saw he was thinking the same thing she was.

Instead of speculating, however, he asked, “What does that mean?”

“Two options,” Martin replied. “One is that someone in your father’s organization is leading us on a wild goose-chase. The report was planted so we’d waste our time on a false lead.”

“But why would they bother?” Emily asked. “It’s not like we were close to finding a cure or anything. All they need to do is wait for me to die, if that’s what they want.”

Paul’s arm tightened around her briefly, and she knew what she’d said had bothered him.

“You’re right,” Martin confirmed, his brown eyes surprisingly kind for such a no-nonsense man. “I don’t think they’d waste their time on something like that.”

“And the second option?” Paul prompted.

“You have a friend in your dad’s organization, pointing us in the right direction.”

Emily glanced over and met Paul’s eyes. His expression looked strangely frozen, for some reason. Not the reaction she’d expected.

“I know you need some time to process all of this and think over possibilities,” Martin continued, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve got some experts who are evaluating the report right now, so they’ll be able to tell us if it looks genuine. Assuming it is, all I need to know is whether you think the information in this report is worth pursuing.”

When Paul didn’t answer, Emily did. “There’s no reason not to pursue it, right? I mean, if it can help the doctors figure out what this virus is, then maybe that would help in coming up with a cure. And, if it’s not, then no harm done.” She glanced up at Paul. “Right?”

“Right,” he agreed, still looking a little stiff.

She shifted on the couch. “We have nothing to lose—even if it’s just a waste of time. And maybe you do have a friend you didn’t know about.”

“Right,” Paul repeated. “There will still be a lot of work left to do, won’t there? Interpreting the research results and then developing an anti-viral medication or whatever they’d do?”

“The report was very complete. It’s all Greek to me, of course, but my smart folks told me right away that it looked there was enough there to development some sort of treatment.”

Emily felt a flare of hope, but she couldn’t really let herself believe it. Nothing ever worked so easily, so miraculously for her.

“You’ll look into who might be responsible for planting the report?” Paul asked Martin.

“We’re already on it.”

Martin stood up when they did and shook their hands as they left his office.

In the car, Emily reached out to put a hand on Paul’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

She didn’t believe him. He’d taken this news in a very strange way. “What are you thinking?” she asked, not wanting him to sink into silent brooding.

He didn’t answer immediately, but finally he admitted, “I went to visit my dad two days ago.”

“What?” she demanded, too sharply. She tempered her tone as she continued, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were just getting over being sick. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I can’t believe you would just—” She bit back her instinctive frustration over being left out of something so important to him, since this was hardly the time to address it. Resolving she’d get into that issue at another time, she asked in a different tone, “How did it go?”

“About how you would expect.”

“What does that mean? What did he say?”

“He said he had nothing to do with your getting the virus.”

She thought for a minute before she responded. “Paul, what if he’s telling you the truth?  What if this mysterious friend is him? He could have steered us to the report we needed. All he would have to do was make a call.” When Paul made a face, she added, “He could be trying to help you.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s happening here. He always has an underlying agenda.”

“Then who else would have done it? The timing of this is just too perfect. Maybe he really is trying to—”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think it’s even possible that you might be wrong about him?” When she saw his face, she hurried on, “Not in anything he did, but in how he feels about you.”

“If he wanted to help me, he could have just told me directly about the virus and where to find the report.”

“But maybe he thinks someone in his organization is responsible for giving me the virus. If that’s the case, then he’d have to be careful about what he gives away. Paul, I don’t know. There could be any number of reasons why he’d do it underhanded this way. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit he was wrong. I’m not saying it’s a sure thing, but maybe we can hope.”

She let out a shaky breath when he didn’t answer. “If the report is from him, then maybe what’s in it is real. Don’t you think that’s worth hoping for?”

“Of course it is.” His tone had changed, and so had the expression on his face.

He didn’t believe her about his father—she could see that—but that didn’t mean the report was a fake. He was going to let himself hope for that, at least.

Emily had lived the last few months knowing she was going to die—shaping everything she did, felt, and said around that irrevocable fact. She wasn’t sure how to even process the hope that she might live, and she had no idea what it meant for her relationship with Paul.

One thing she knew, however—something she’d never dreamed would be possible when she accepted his ring two months ago.

Paul wanted her to live. He wanted it deeply, with all of the fierce intensity of his nature.

She could feel it in his body, hear it in his voice, see it in his face.

“It’s better than no hope at all,” she added.

He reached out and pulled her against him in the backseat of the car. “It’s much better than no hope, baby.”

Emily sighed hoarsely and buried her face briefly in Paul’s shirt, breathing in the warm, expensive scent of him and loving the way he called her “baby.”

It a few panicked pangs through her heart, however. At first, she’d thought the endearment just slipped out during sex or when she was really sick. She’d assumed it was just one of those things guys said.

But Paul called her "baby" all the time now, and it seemed to signify that he meant it.

He shouldn’t—he just shouldn’t—mean it.

***

In just a week, Dr. Franklin had a treatment he wanted her to try, based on the information found in the report.

It was a long-shot. Just a preliminary attempt—an established treatment for another virus that had similarities to the one described in the report. Even if it didn’t work, the treatment shouldn’t have any significant negative side-effects, so he thought they might as well try it right away.

Emily went to the hospital and was hooked up to an IV for several hours, and she and Paul went back the next day so they could check the results.

Evidently, the treatment hadn’t worked the way he’d hoped. She could see it in Dr. Franklin’s face before he actually said the words.

They would keep trying, he said. The report had given them a number of invaluable leads. There would be another treatment to try soon.

It was still early.

But she and Paul were quiet as they headed back to the car. When they climbed in the backseat, Emily wasn’t sure what to say. She felt kind of crushed, even though she knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. So she also felt annoyed and impatient with herself for giving into such an irrational despair.

She darted a look over to Paul. He stared out the window blankly as the driver pulled away from the curb. His expression was composed but she knew—she knew—he was crushed like she was.

For some crazy reason, it helped. It gave her a purpose, something to do. She didn’t want Paul to feel sad or bleak or despairing. Not because of her. She couldn’t stand for him to feel that way.

“This is silly,” she said, smiling at him—just a little wobbly—when he turned to look at her in faint surprise. “We shouldn’t be acting like this is the end of the world. Dr. Franklin is right. There’s no reason why their first attempt would work. We’re going to be total wrecks if we’re like this after every treatment for the next several weeks.”

Paul actually gave a huff of amusement. “Speak for yourself. I make a point to never be a wreck.”

She giggled at his irony. “Good to know.” She reached over and curved a hand around the back of his head, pulling his face down toward hers. She kissed him lightly on the mouth.  Marveled that she was entitled to do so. “Let’s not get depressed yet. Okay?”

Paul’s lips seemed to cling to hers, and he twined his fingers through her loose hair as he deepened the kiss. When their lips parted, he leaned his forehead against hers and murmured, “Okay.”

Emily’s chest overflowed with something like sweetness, but then it was followed by those pangs of panic again. She’d felt this way before—like when they were making love under the stars on Prince Edward Island and Paul had seemed so incredibly overwhelmed by the experience.

Part of her craved the deep feeling, the neediness she sometimes sensed from him, but part of her absolutely hated it.

It wasn’t what their marriage was supposed to be about. It would mean they should never have gotten married at all.

She just couldn’t leave Paul grieving when she died.

She leaned back against the seat of the car and twisted her engagement ring over her wedding band on her finger nervously.

“Emily?” Paul asked, his voice sounding different—more like his normal protective concern than the strained way he’d sounded most of the day today. “What is it?”

She shook her head, forcing back the brewing fear. Paul was just a passionate man. He’d always been that way, even though he tried to hide it. His behavior probably didn’t mean what she sometimes thought it might mean.

“We should do something fun today,” she said brightly, successfully pushing back her anxious thoughts. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m up for anything. What do you want to do?”

Emily shook her head with a half-smile. “Don’t give me that. It doesn’t always have to be about me. You should choose today. What would be fun for you?”

Put on the spot, Paul looked momentarily perplexed.  Then he gave her a grin that was almost predatory. “Since you’ve asked…”

“Uh oh.” Emily shifted in the seat, suddenly sure he was going to take ruthless advantage of her insistence on doing what he wanted.

He chuckled. “We should go out tonight. Dinner, dancing, something like that.”

She brightened. “That sounds fun.”

“So we should find you a new dress to wear.”

She gasped, suddenly realizing where this was going. “I don’t need a new dress. I have that beautiful dress you got me in New York!”

“I think you’ll need another one for tonight,” he said, with ostensible nonchalance, although a tiny corner of his mouth was twitching just slightly.

She glared at him in outrage. “This is a trick. A sneaky, malicious trick! You just want to make me buy more clothes, despite my very rational arguments against doing so!”

Paul threw his head back and laughed at her indignation. “You did say I could choose what I wanted to do this afternoon.”

Emily tried to organize her very rational arguments against spending Paul’s money to buy clothes she didn’t need, but she had trouble making any of them very convincing.

At least she’d succeeded in dragging Paul out of his bleak mood.

“Fine,” she muttered, shooting him a dark look. “But the dress is not going to be expensive, and there will be no fancy accessories to go with it.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Emily ended up buying a gorgeous black dress. Paul also insisted on picking out for her a double-strand choker of black pearls that matched perfectly, which she begrudgingly accepted, only because he kept capitalizing on the fact that she’d said he could do what he wanted that afternoon.

Despite her complaints, she was feeling pretty pleased with the purchases that evening as she got dressed. She’d taken a long bath and had even taken the time to paint her fingernails and toenails a striking dark red. Plus, she spent forever on her hair until she’d managed to convince it to stay in soft, bouncy waves around her shoulders, instead of frizzing like it had an annoying tendency to do.

Her dress was black, with cute cap sleeves. The hem fell above her knees, and the silhouette tightened just under her breasts in the most adorable vintage bow. It could masquerade as a classic “little black dress,” but it was too quirky to be elegant in any traditional way. Emily loved it, even though Paul had to bully her into even trying the dress on at all.

She wasn’t sure where Paul was going to take her tonight and—ridiculously, since they’d been married now for two months—it felt like she was going out on a date with him.

She was peering at herself in the mirror with a kind of giddy thrill at how she’d managed to look both gorgeous and like her at the same time when she heard a tap on her bedroom door.

“You ready, Emily?”

“Yeah,” she said, trying to clasp the diamond and emerald bracelet Paul had given her for her birthday on her wrist with one hand.

Paul opened the door and came in. He looked absolutely scrumptious in his black suit and tie, which he wore with his typical effortless sophistication.

He stopped when he saw her, his eyes reflecting a mingling of heat, possessiveness and awe. She’d seen that look in his eyes before—mostly notably when they had sex—and she recognized it now as admiration. “Very nice,” he murmured, just a little thickness in his voice.

It was the thickness, of course, that convinced her he meant it. He must really like how she looked.

She tried not to preen, although her cheeks were a little too pink. “Thanks. I do love the dress, although I still don’t approve of your sneaky tactics in buying it.” To distract herself from that very particular look in his eyes, she picked up the black pearls.

Before she could put them around her neck, Paul stepped over and took them from her hands. He gently moved her hair out of the way and clasped the necklace for her, his fingers warm against her skin. “I should be able to buy my wife a few things without resorting to sneaky tactics.”

“Whatever.” She frowned slightly and raised her left hand. “Do you think the bracelet looks all right with the necklace? Maybe I should—”

“It looks perfect.” His eyes were strangely hot as he stood behind her and gazed at her reflection in the mirror.

She wasn’t sure the pearls really looked perfect with the diamonds and emeralds, but she liked how the jewelry looked anyway.

And she liked that Paul liked how it looked.

And she really liked how she and Paul looked together in the mirror.

Like a couple.

“Okay,” she said, trying to pull herself together and not turn around and kiss Paul hard. If nothing else, it would mess up her makeup. “I’m ready.”

He put a hand on the small of her back as they walked out of her room. She loved how it felt there, somehow both protective and possessive.

She wondered if this was how any wife would feel when she was about to go out for a night on the town with her husband.

* * *

It was several hours later—well after midnight—when they returned to the apartment.

Emily clung to Paul’s arm with one arm and with the other she cradled a bouquet of pink tulips that he’d bought for her from a market they’d passed on the way to dinner, after she’d randomly mentioned that she loved them and that she’d carried pink tulips on their wedding day.

She was laughing hysterically over a dry comment he’d made on the elevator ride up. Her head was spinning, and she was flying on a giddy high. All worries and anxiety from earlier in the day had completely vanished from her conscious thoughts. She'd barely thought about them all evening.

“I have something to announce,” she said, enunciating every syllable with what she believed to be impressive articulation. “It’s important.”

Paul had started to loosen his tie, even before they’d made it past the entry hall. He looked warm and relaxed and slightly flushed, but still yummy in his suit. At her words, he paused and gave her a questioning look. “What is it?”

She met his eyes soberly. “These tulips desperately need water.”

He laughed softly, evidently finding her words funnier than she did. She’d thought it was a serious subject, since the flowers were beautiful, beloved, and must be carefully preserved.

“Then we should find a vase for them.”

She followed him into the kitchen, since she assumed he knew where the vases might be stashed in the apartment. He pulled a simple crystal vase from a cabinet and then watched as she cut the stems, fill the vase with water, and arrange the tulips in it.

When the flowers were suitably arranged, she stepped back and admired them, darting her eyes over to Paul to make sure he was admiring them as well.

He was looking at her rather than the flowers, but his eyes were soft so she couldn’t bring herself to complain.

“I have something else to announce,” she declared, as the knowledge hit her like a wave. She'd realized why her mind was a little fuzzy.

“What’s that?” Paul's lips were tight again, like he was suppressing a smile.

“Those fancy places you took me to tonight should have their license…licenses…their licenses revoked for serving so much alcohol to an eighteen-year-old.”

Paul chuckled. “You didn’t drink that much.”

She closed her eyes and tried to cast her mind back on how much she’d drunk. She’d had a glass of red wine with dinner. Then some champagne at the place they’d gone to dance and have dessert. She’d never finished her glass, but it had been topped off a few times by their attentive server.

“True.” She leaned forward to add in a stage whisper into his ear, “But I believe I might be a tiny bit buzzed.”

Paul laughed again and pulled her into a soft hug. “I think you might be right.”

She hugged him back eagerly, loving how hard and lean and masculine he felt against her. “I had fun tonight,” she told him, her voice muffled by his suit jacket.

“Good,” he murmured, holding her tightly against him. “I did too.”

When she pulled away, she fiddled with the tulips a little more until they looked appropriately gorgeous in the vase. Then she started to pick up the vase to bring it into the living area, but Paul took the vase out of her hands and carried it for her.

She suspected he (wrongly) believed she might drop it.

He placed the tulips on the coffee table, and then readjusted their placement on the polished surface three times at her instructions.

That duty accomplished, she went to the bathroom. As she washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were deeply flushed, and her hair and dress were a little rumpled, but she still liked how she looked. She looked pretty, elegant, somehow womanly. She took off her pearls, since they felt too tight around her neck.

She nodded in satisfaction at her reflection before she returned to Paul in the living area.

He’d turned on some music and was sitting on the sofa, reading something on his smartphone.

She frowned at him. “No work tonight.”

He smiled and put the phone down. “Just checking email.”

“That’s work.”

Then she noticed the music. It was just instrumental music, but it was very compelling—and it had a slow, sensual beat she loved. She sighed in pleasure.

“I loved dancing with you tonight,” she told him as she started dancing, mostly just swinging her hips, in the empty space between the furniture grouping and the doors to the terrace. The lights of the city were spread out beautifully from the vantage point of the apartment, and they seemed to be pulsing, dancing with her. “Thanks for taking me.”

“You’re welcome,” Paul said from the sofa behind her. She wasn’t looking at him, so she didn’t know what his expression was, but his voice was low and very nice.

She closed her eyes and let herself go, enjoying the music and the freedom of shedding some of her normal inhibitions. “You’re a good dancer.”

“So are you.” His voice seemed to be closer than it had been before, but she didn’t turn to investigate. The placement of his voice didn't seem particularly important.

So she was surprised when she suddenly felt Paul’s arms around her, turning her around so she faced him. He’d fallen into rhythm with her, and he gently pulled up her arms so they were wrapped around his neck.

She sighed in pleasure again and pressed up against him, moving with him instinctively in an unstructured slow dance.

They’d danced like this earlier in the evening, and Paul had made her feel like she was the only woman in the room, his warm eyes never straying from her, despite the gorgeous people all around them.

He really was a very good husband to have.

They danced for a long time in the living room without talking. Eventually, the dance became more intimate than anything they’d done in public. Emily’s body was completely relaxed, almost like she was melting. She rubbed herself against Paul’s lean body so she could better enjoy the sensations of being so close to him.

Paul’s hands had lowered to her bottom, which he was cupping possessively. He was also pressing her pelvis against his, and she gradually felt him grow hard against her middle. It all felt natural, sensual, instinctive. Nothing confusing or shocking or with hard edges.

When he started kissing her, that seemed instinctive too. She responded eagerly, letting the pleasure and the deep feeling pulse through her body with her blood. She raised her hands from his neck so she could stroke his hair, and when she heard him moan into the kiss, she moaned back.

Their mouths parted eventually, and she dropped her head backward, closing her eyes and releasing a sigh. “Feels so good,” she breathed, pressing herself against the bulge of his arousal as their hips moved together to the rhythm of the music.

“Mm hmm,” he murmured, leaning down to mouth her jaw and then her throat, which she’d exposed to him.

“Oh, God,” she gasped, as she felt the pressure of his lips on her neck. “Feels so good.”

“Mm,” he hummed against her skin. His hands had started to bunch up the fabric of her skirt at the back until he’d pulled her dress up far enough to caress the back of her thighs and her ass.

She suddenly realized arousal was throbbing between her thighs, and she wasn’t really very buzzed anymore. Her mind was a little blurry, but it was from desire rather than any significant effects of the champagne.

They weren’t really dancing anymore. Just embracing. She raised one leg to wrap around his thighs so she could rub her arousal against him. Since she was still wearing very high heels, her pelvis was better aligned with his than normal.

He grunted and lifted her slightly so her center could find the bulge in his trousers. Their grinding against each other was enthusiastic, if a little clumsy, and Emily huffed rhythmically in effort and pleasure as the friction developed into the beginnings of an orgasm.

Paul groaned and released her, taking a step back.

She whimpered in disappointment and reached out to grab him again.

“If we keep it up, I’m going to lose it,” he said thickly. When she gazed up at his face, she saw his eyes were hot and urgent, and his skin had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

“That's okay. I wanted to come.”

“Come here, then,” he murmured, sitting down on a chair and drawing her onto his lap.

She came willingly, her body throbbing with arousal and her mind whirling with feeling and sensation. The music still sounded a slow, sensual backdrop, and Paul’s body was so hot he seemed to burn her.

But she loved it—she loved all of it. She let him adjust her in his lap until her legs were draped across his thighs, and she was leaning sideways against his chest. His hand slipped under her skirt and then under her panties until he was fondling her intimately.

“Yeah,” she gasped, as his touch triggered sharp ripples of pleasure. “Please, Paul!”

He slipped two fingers inside her and massaged her clit with his thumb. And after just a few moments, she let her head fall back as she groaned, a climax building quickly inside her.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Paul murmured hoarsely, his hand working between her legs, and his eyes never leaving her face. “So sweet, so beautiful.”

His words turned her on as much as his touch. She tried to ride his fingers with her hips. “Oh God,” she choked out. “Gonna come.”

“That’s right, baby. Come for me.” He bent his neck so he could kiss her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids. He murmured between kisses, “So beautiful, so sweet.”

She came hard, shuddering on his lap and in his arms as the pleasure ripped through her. She gasped out her pleasure and then released a broken cry as his hand kept working, bringing her to a second orgasm on the heels of the first.

When the sensations had worked themselves through, she relaxed into a boneless, sated sprawl on top of him.

He held her tightly, almost tenderly, brushing kisses into her hair—even though his body was still tense and aroused.

In the dazed blur of orgasmic aftermath, she felt cherished. Couldn't begin to understand it.

“Oh God,” she moaned, when her mind started working again, “That was better than any buzz from champagne.”

“It better be.”

She pulled away from him so she could see his face. His eyes were blazing with something she barely recognized. It took her breath away.

When she felt the beginnings of those panicked pangs from the implications of the feeling conveyed in his gaze, she ruthlessly stifled them. She wasn't—just wasn't—going to worry about that tonight.

Partly as a means of distraction and partly because she noticed something in Paul's eyes she wanted to encourage, a teasing impulse took hold of her without warning. She summoned the will to pull herself out of his lap. “Thank you,” she said, desperately trying to hide a smile. “That was wonderful. I really appreciate your doing that for me. I’m kind of tired now, so I think I’ll go to bed, if that's all right.”

Paul just stared at her blankly and held himself perfectly still.

She burst into a ripple of delighted laughter at his expression and, since her knees felt a little shaky, dropped down to sit on a nearby ottoman.

Evidently realizing he was being teased, Paul narrowed his eyes at her with an impressive coolness, despite the way he was obviously overcome with desire.

She laughed again and gave him a playful look. “Were you thinking we would do something else?”

Something changed in his expression. It suddenly became almost predatory. Paul smiled slowly. “Are you trying to taunt me?” he drawled, a thrilling and almost dangerous note in his voice. “I assure you—it won’t go unanswered.”

She shivered, feeling a new clench of excitement between her legs, despite her previous orgasms. She’d never felt this way before—sexy and playful at the same time. She would never have believed she’d have the right to act this way with Paul.

For the moment, none of the anxiety and uncertainty surrounding their situation mattered. All that mattered was he was her husband, and she was his wife, and he needed this tonight. As much as she did.

He was about to chase her, to carry her to bed, to take her the way he wanted. She could see it in his eyes, in his coiled stance.

It was exactly what she wanted.

She adjusted her legs so she’d be ready to flee, since it wouldn’t do to give in too easily, since she somehow sensed Paul needed the chase as much as the sex. Her position on the ottoman wasn’t exactly elegant, but she couldn’t seem to care. “If you’re just going to talk,” she teased, “then I really am going to go to bed.”

Paul made his first stalking move toward her.

Emily jumped up and ran.

It didn’t take him long to catch her, since she was hampered by her high heels.

She squealed when Paul grabbed her around the waist and swung her up so she was draped over his shoulder in an undignified way. She squirmed wildly and tried to denounce him as a Neanderthal, but she was laughing too hard and too turned on to do either very effectively.

She felt his shoulder beneath her middle shaking with amusement, even though he managed to maintain a mostly militant composure.

He carried her into the master bedroom, and Emily started to shudder with anticipation. It wasn’t particularly comfortable to be slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, but she’d be lying if she claimed it didn't excite her.

Determined to not submit too easily, however, she pounded him with her fists on his back—the only part of his body she could easily reach—and tried to wriggle out of his hard grip, calling down creative maledictions on his cruel, caveman ways.

Paul responded with a crisp pop on her ass.

“Oh!” she cried, absolutely astonished by a sharp clench of desire at the feel of his swatting her ass. Or maybe it was just the friction from the way she was writhing in his grip.

When Paul reached the bedside, he swung her down off his shoulder and deposited her on the bed. His eyes were hot and excited, and he gave her a predatory smile “Did you like that?”

Emily couldn’t help by squirm as her body rippled with pleasure. “Of course not,” she managed to say. “I don’t respond to caveman tactics. But I'm very generous and I forgive you. So get down here.” She grabbed his tie and pulled him down on top of her.

They kissed, hard and urgent, with Paul pressing his hot weight on top of her. She was so aroused she rubbed her hips against his, shamelessly loving the tight bulge she felt in his trousers.

She loved that he was so turned on. Just as turned on as she was.

They kissed and rocked together with increasing eagerness. Then Paul turned Emily over so she was lying on her stomach, and he raised her hips so her bottom was higher than the rest of her body.

She panted frantically against the pillow, her whole body shaking in anticipation. She looked over her shoulder to see Paul fumbling with the zipper of his trousers. They both were still mostly dressed. She even still had her shoes on. But the clothes just made the whole thing sexier and somehow naughtier.

They’d only had sex a few times, and those times had always been missionary.

Emily blood raced at the thought of his taking her from behind.

“Is this all right, baby?” he asked, as he lifted her skirt, moved aside her panties, and lined up his erection at her very wet entrance.  His expression was hot and intense and fierce somehow. She’d never seen him look quite like that before.

She smothered a giggle at how sweet he was—still concerned about her even when he was supposed to be a caveman. “Oh, God, yeah. Please.” She wriggled her butt a little, dying to feel him inside her.

He closed his eyes as he pitched his hips forward. The penetration felt different—deeper, more intense—than it had in the previous position they’d used. She choked on a whimper of deep pleasure as the pressure intensified.

It didn’t hurt. It just felt like so much. And she desperately wanted it.

Paul gripped the soft flesh of her hips as he began to thrust in a fast rhythm, pushing her body forward on every thrust. He was already more out of control than she was used to seeing him, but she loved it, wanted it, needed it.

It seemed to match the way she was feeling too.

She fisted her hands in the bedding and tried to push her bottom back toward his thrusts, but she didn’t have much leverage in this position. Her cheek was pressed against the pillow, and she panted hotly as the sensations intensified implausibly fast.

Paul was grunting rhythmically, primitive and animalistic. She knew he needed this, needed to let himself go. And that knowledge gave her as much pleasure as the physical stimulation. The feelings spiraled up, blurring her vision and tightening her chest.

Their sex wasn’t really rough—at least, not by regular standards—but Paul was being less gentle than he’d been with her before. They were shaking the bed now with their motion, and their skin was slapping together. The carnal sounds made the whole thing even hotter.

She heard herself making little sobbing sounds as the sensations got more and more intense. Paul’s grunting was getting louder too, and his hands tightened almost painfully on her hips.

He was about to come. She knew it, and she didn’t want his pleasure to be dampened by the knowledge that he’d come before she did. So she squeezed one of her hands beneath her body so she could rub her clit.

She cried out loudly as she massaged herself, causing her body and the pleasure to tighten down.

“Come, baby,” Paul choked out. “Come now.” He was visibly trying to hold himself back.

Her body rocked with a hard orgasm. She smothered a cry with the pillow.

Paul came too with a loud roar, his hips jerking clumsily against her ass as he rode out his climax.

They were both still shaking in the aftermath when he kind of collapsed on top of her, his weight suddenly descending on her back.

She grunted in surprise, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She liked how overwhelmed and replete and boneless he felt on top of her.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, lifting himself up enough to turn her over onto her back, and then more gently easing his weight down on top of her.

She gathered him into her arms, spreading her legs so he could settle more comfortably between them. He was hot and sweating beneath his evening suit, and he buried his face in the hollow of her neck, pressing a few clumsy kisses against her skin.

“That was so good,” she murmured, softly stroking his back. “God, Paul, that was good.”

She didn’t expect a response. Not yet. She would have thought that, as he got used to having sex with her, he wouldn’t have been so leveled by the completion. But, if anything, it seemed to affect him more now than it had at the beginning. It was like he poured all of himself into it, and it took a while to gather himself back.

She loved it and feared it both.

After a few minutes, she started to feel a little uncomfortable. He had come inside her, and she felt a little sloppy because of it. Plus, he was kind of heavy. She tried not to shift beneath him, however, since he was still breathing raggedly and hadn’t yet lifted his head.

Her hand strayed up to his neck.

He released a sound like a low, long moan as she caressed him there. His breath was hot against the skin of her throat.

Since he seemed to be enjoying it, she kept stroking the nape of his neck. He moaned again. Then she felt another, different sensation. One that surprised her.

“Oh,” she said, stiffening slightly as she felt him growing erect again against her thigh. “That was quick.”

“Mm hmm,” he murmured, mouthing her pulse in a way that felt more intentional than before.

A little spark of the playfulness she’d experienced earlier hit her again, and she said with impressive sobriety, “That’s really quick, isn’t it? I thought men slowed down on recovery time when they got older.”

Paul stiffened palpably and lifted his head to glare down at her. “Just how old do you think I am?”

She was hard-pressed not to giggle, but she managed to keep her face still. “Twenty-three, right? Isn’t this a quick recovery time for someone your age?”

He took a raspy breath as he seemed to swallow his indignation. But then his expression suddenly changed. “You little tease,” he muttered, his eyes sparking with affection and amusement, even as he tried to maintain his cool disapproval. “You’re taunting me again.”

Emily burst into rippling laughter and pulled him down into a hug. “Sorry. You need to be teased sometimes, though.”

“Do I?” He kissed her softly. Then again.

“A little teasing is good for someone of your advanced years,” she explained, her heart overflowing with something nameless, something she didn't dare to analyze closely.

Paul laughed out loud, and then he kissed her again. As they kissed, his hand explored between her thighs.

“We can go again,” she gasped, breaking her lips away from his for long enough to suck in air as her body responded to his fondling. “I want to.”

He stifled a groan and claimed another kiss. And he was still kissing her as he lined himself up and sank inside her once more.

This time, their lovemaking was slow, sensual, tender. They kissed almost constantly as they rocked together, and pleasure rose slowly, inexorably inside her from all of the stimulation mingling into her rising emotion.

She was still, for some reason, wearing her high heels, and she toed them off so she could wrap her legs around Paul’s hips, wanting to feel him even more deeply.

Only at the end, when their motion became more urgent, more needy, did their mouths break apart. She panted against his cheek and he panted against hers as their hips worked together in matching passion.

Paul started to murmur out rough endearments as he neared climax, choppy, disconnected words made up of “Baby,” “Good,” “Sweet,” and “Love.”

The words washed over Emily, as powerful as his flesh inside her. She whimpered and arched up into them, into him, as her pleasure finally broke.

He came with her, and then they were both gasping and shaking as they came down, their bodies finally replete.

Emily held his hot, relaxed body on top of her as long as she could. But she was sore now—after two rounds of sex—and their combined fluids inside her was uncomfortable.

Since Paul still hadn’t pulled himself together, she gave him a quick kiss on the temple and then eased herself out from under his weight. He rolled over to let her go, and she ran to the bathroom to clean up.

When she returned, Paul was still sprawled on the bed in his rumpled suit. He looked adorable and incredibly sexy. His eyes were open, and he smiled at her with an inexplicable softness.

She smiled back, but the panic in her chest returned with full force as she started to understand the implications of…everything.

She couldn’t misunderstand what had just happened, what Paul had revealed in the way he’d made love to her just now.

He’d been making love to her—which was something he never should have done. She’d never dreamed it was really possible, and so she hadn’t worried about what would happen to him after she died.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” she told him, grabbing a pair of pajamas and going back into the bathroom. She mostly just needed to get away from him for a minute. When she’d changed, brushed her teeth, and washed her face, she went to grab a bottle of water for the bedside table, since she was thirsty.

By the time she returned, Paul had found the energy to heave himself up and get ready for bed too. As soon as he turned off the lights and climbed back into bed, he pulled her into his arms.

She lay in his arms, in his embrace, her cheek resting against his bare chest and her arm draped over his belly.

She felt him relax, felt his breathing even out and slow down, felt some of the hot tenseness leaving his muscles.

She couldn’t deny the way he felt against her at the moment—like he needed her, like he felt safe with her, like he could finally, finally let down some of his defenses.

In any other circumstances, the knowledge would have thrilled her. That Paul needed her as much as she did him. That he cared for her as much as she did him. That he wanted her—all of her—as much as she did him.

But it just wasn’t supposed to happen with them.

It couldn’t happen.

He brushed a few sleepy kisses in her hair and murmured a goodnight. Then she felt him fall asleep.

Emily was absolutely exhausted so it didn’t take her very long to fall asleep too.

But her slumbers were tense and restless, and sometime in the middle of the night she was hit with a stark revelation. Maybe she dreamed the conclusion, or maybe she just finally put the pieces together in her sleep.

But she woke up knowing for sure.

No matter how unlikely, implausible, ridiculous. No matter how much such a thing should never, ever have happened. No matter how ludicrous it was to think that a man like Paul Marino—a man who had learned to protect himself from being hurt—had actually fallen for his dying wife. No matter....

She knew—she knew—he had.

He’d even been mumbling out the words to her just before climax as they’d been making love the last time. She’d heard them but hadn’t fully processed what they meant until now.

She sat up in bed with an anguished gasp, pulling out of the arm Paul was still holding her with in his sleep.

She gasped again as the terror and horror coursed through her.

It was wrong. It was so incredibly wrong.

What had she done to him? How could she have been so incredibly heartless as to bind him to her emotionally when she was only going to be ripped away in the end?

He would grieve. He would be devastated. He would be broken when she died. She knew better than most how deeply emotions ran in Paul, how intensely he felt everything.

She couldn’t bear the thought of it. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

With a flare of panic, she scrambled to the side of the bed, desperately sucking in air in an attempt to ease the suffocating clench of her chest. Her body was washed with waves of heat, and she felt for a moment like she might literally faint.

She leaned forward, dropping her head between her knees, and tried to force herself to breathe in the dark silence of Paul's bedroom.

Her bedroom now, as much as his.

Tears squeezed from her clenched eyes as she forced in breath after pained breath. Eventually, the wooziness passed and her chest unclamped.

But then her shoulders started to shake with emotion she tried desperately to stifle.

She didn’t want to wake up Paul. He needed to sleep. He needed to be taken care of. He needed to live a long, happy life. He needed not to be left broken when his wife died.

He needed to never have married her at all.

She choked on the rising sobs and nearly lost it when she heard Paul shift on the other side of the bed.

“Emily?” he asked hoarsely. “Baby, what is it?”

She couldn’t answer. Just shook in tight, silent sobs.

He was getting out of bed now. Coming around to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. He wrapped a warm arm around her and pulled her against his side.

“Please don’t cry,” he murmured roughly, wrapping his other arm around her as well so he was holding her in a tight hug. “Please don’t. I can’t stand it.”

She sobbed into his chest, still repressing the emotion so she was barely making any sound. But that was as much as she could suppress. The horrible reality just ripped through her.

She had done it to him. She had asked Paul to marry her, assuming he’d never be emotionally invested, assuming her death would barely be a blip on his emotional radar.

It never should have been anything else.

She’d been so incredibly wrong.

The grief and pain lodged hard in her heart when she was finally able to control her sobs. She leaned against his bare chest and tried to think of some way to explain her breakdown.

He wasn’t going to accept a refusal to answer.

“Emily?” he prompted, gently stroking her messy hair. “You need to tell me.”

“It’s just…” she choked, terror keeping her from speaking her deepest grief out loud, “It’s just everything.”

He seemed satisfied by this response. He hugged her more tightly. “I know. I feel the same way.”

She hugged him back. She couldn’t help it. Despite everything, she still needed to comfort him and to take comfort from him.

Eventually, he pulled away and peered down at her face in the dark room. “Are you okay? Can you come back to bed?”

She nodded and crawled back under the covers as he climbed into bed beside her. He pulled her into their normal position, and she didn’t try to pull away.

But she wanted to. Every time he touched her—every look and the sound of his voice—seemed to affirm the awful realization she’d come to.

She wasn’t sure how she’d missed it before.

But she knew it now, as she felt him hold her for a long time and then relax into sleep again. He needed to sleep. She was happy he was able to.

She needed to too. But she didn’t. Not at all. Not until dawn.

She lay awake in the dark, in his arms, and came to a few bleak conclusions.

If there was any way for her to stop this—to keep this from happening—then she would have to do it.

Even if she had to break him a little now to keep him from breaking completely when she died, then she would have to do that too.

Sometime in the night, her head started to throb. Maybe it was just the overload of emotion, but maybe she was getting sick again. Her last fever had ended less than two days ago.

It was the final sign she needed.

The treatment hadn’t worked. Even with the information on the virus in the report, they weren’t going to find a cure. She knew it with absolute certainty.

And there was something else she knew now, as she felt Paul clutching her even in his sleep.

He loved her—he loved her—and she was going to die.

* * *

Emily must have dozed off around dawn, and she woke up feeling achy and overly hot.

She blinked at the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.

It was after nine, she realized, and Paul must already be up.

She rolled out of bed, feeling the heavy sinking of her heart as she processed the revelations she’d come to last night. She wandered down the hall, instinctively seeking him out.

She found him in his office. He’d been working on his computer, but he turned to her with a fond smile when he recognized her presence.

“Hi. Did you sleep all right?” he asked, his eyes taking in her rumpled pajamas, her sleep-flushed face, and her messy hair.

She nodded, even though she hadn’t slept well at all. “Yeah. I didn’t mean to sleep so late. Did you get up early?”

He gave a half-shrug, which she took as an admission that he’d risen at some ungodly hour.  “How do you feel?” His eyes were sharp, as they always were.

“Fine,” she lied. “Kind of groggy. I must have drunk too much last night.”

His smile widened. “Maybe. Do you have a headache?”

“A little one. No big deal. I’ll take some aspirin and drink coffee.”

“You can take it easy this morning. There’s nothing we need to do.”

It was a Sunday morning, and she’d learned something last night that had changed everything.

Still too hot and kind of blurry, Emily suddenly realized what she needed to do. A plan came into her mind fully formed. “Actually, I kind of feel like waffles for breakfast.”

“Sure. I can ask Ruth to—”

“No, I really wanted those big Belgium waffles from The Cracked Egg. But, if you’re too busy with work, I can have your driver take me—”

“Of course I’m not too busy,” he said, glancing at his watch.  He looked a little surprised—since she wasn’t in the habit of asking for special outings first thing in the morning—but not unduly so. “Get dressed, and we’ll go as soon as you’re ready.”

She smiled at him, as brightly as she could. She'd somehow known he would agree. “Thanks!”

She got coffee, took some ibuprofen, and then went to get dressed. She took a cool shower, which seemed to help ease some of the heat from her skin. Her fever couldn’t be too high yet, since she was still able to function. It was so important that she hide this from Paul. If he knew she was feverish, then her plan would never work.

Her whole world had narrowed down to one bleak reality. There was only one thing left for her to do.

She got dressed quickly and carefully applied makeup, making sure to use blush so she wouldn’t look so sickeningly pale. She grabbed her biggest purse—more of a tote than a purse—and put in it her toiletry case, her phone, her wallet, and a change of clothes. Since she had room, she put the lovely music box Paul had gotten her for her birthday in the bag too. She looked longingly at her laptop, but she knew Paul would notice and wonder why she was carrying it with her.

She had to leave everything. Almost everything. Or he would know.

Her chest ached ruthlessly as she slipped off her rings. She kissed the engagement ring. Then the wedding band. Then she laid them delicately on the counter next to the sink in her bathroom. She couldn’t take the necklace either—since Paul had given it to her on their wedding day—but she couldn’t seem to leave the bracelet.

It had been a birthday present. It wasn't a symbol of their marriage like the rings or necklace. Surely she didn’t have to leave it too.

She zipped the bracelet into an inner pocket of her bag, her eyes blurring over with emotion and rising fever.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this, but she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

The world was hot and aching and confusing and so, so hard.

With a gasp, she went to the bathroom to put on her rings again, belatedly realizing that Paul would notice she wasn’t wearing them.

She sat on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath. She could do this. She would do this.

She couldn’t do anything else.

She took her folded, well-worn list and put it in the zipper pocket next to Paul’s bracelet.

As she was leaving, her eyes fell on Paul’s old edition of Riverside Shakespeare on her dresser. It would fit in her bag, but it would look bulky and call attention to the size of her bag.

But she couldn’t bear to leave it behind. All of Paul’s notes in the margins made her feel like he was reading it with her.

She grabbed the book and hugged it to her chest, deciding she could come up with a suitable explanation for bringing it with her.

She found Paul in the entry hall, talking on the phone. He was talking to Jack Martin.

He smiled at her absently and gestured her toward the door. She was actually relieved that he continued the phone conversation all the way down the elevator and out to the car. That would mean less time for her to hide from his searching eyes.

He didn’t seem to be talking about anything new—mostly just rehearsing what they already knew. Emily realized suddenly that Paul had been talking to Jack Martin when she overheard him on the phone at the inn on PEI.

When he’d said it was the most important thing, Paul had been talking about her.

It hurt. So badly.

After settling into the backseat of the car, Emily opened up her Shakespeare and pretended to read as Paul finished his conversation.

She glanced up with a smile when she heard him disconnect the call. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. Nothing new.” He looked tired, but he smiled at her anyway. “Getting into Measure For Measure?”

“It’s really pretty good,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound perky, even though she felt anything but. “But I’m mostly getting excited about getting to the end. I only have six more plays to read.”

“That’s impressive,” he murmured. “Almost done.”

Paul’s eyes were soft on her face. She couldn’t help but smile at him, even though it felt achingly bittersweet. The emotion in his expression seemed so obvious to her now. He wasn’t even trying to hide how he felt.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t known yesterday that he loved her.

She couldn’t believe she was leaving him today.

She almost strangled on the swell of painful emotion but masked it by pretending to cough.

Paul eyed her with his characteristic observation but didn’t appear unduly worried.

When they got to the restaurant, Emily stumbled as she got out of the car, feeling way too hot and dizzy. She managed to smile and even laugh a little, as if she were amused by her clumsiness.

She just had to make it a few minutes longer.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” Paul asked, peering at her as they walked in. His hand even reached out to feel her forehead.

She swatted his hand away before he touched her. He would know in an instant if he felt her face. “I’m fine. Don’t fuss. It’s just a little headache. Maybe this is what a hangover feels like.”

He chuckled. “But you still feel like waffles? Why aren’t I surprised?”

She liked his fond, teasing tone, even as it threatened to rip her heart out.

The restaurant was packed, but the hostess still managed to secure them an immediate table, much to Emily’s relief. She stuffed Shakespeare into her bag before she dropped the bag on the floor next to her chair.

Their server brought over two big glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice before they’d even asked for it. Emily gulped hers down gratefully, her mouth feeling hot and dry. They put in their orders, and then Emily figured she’d waited long enough.

“I’m going to run to the restroom,” she said casually. “Too much coffee.”

Paul raised his eyebrows but didn’t question her statement. Emily managed to keep her legs steady as she made it across the large room and then down the hallway to the ladies room.

She’d chosen this restaurant for a very particular reason. There was a window to the outside in the women’s restroom.

It wasn’t very large, but it was large enough for her to crawl through.

There was someone else in the restroom, but she just hid in a stall until the other woman left. Then she came out and stared at her pale face and overly bright eyes in the mirror. She pulled off her engagement ring and wedding band and placed them on the counter next to the sink.

It was a risk, but Paul was likely to come look for her after not too long. At least, when he saw the rings, he would know she hadn’t been kidnapped. He wouldn’t be scared. He would know what happened right away.

That would be better.

She desperately wanted to leave a note, to try to explain something. She hated for him to be hurt. But that would soften it. It would be better if he was angry, if he hated her.

Hurting him now would hurt him less than he would have hurt later, when she died.

Then, not taking time to think or indulge second-thoughts, she climbed up on the sink—feeling suddenly dizzy as she did so. She held on desperately until she got her balance back, and then she unlocked the window.

It pushed open easily and she crawled out, dragging her heavy bag with her.

She was clumsy and uncoordinated—probably from the fever—and she scraped up her hands and banged her head pretty bad on the window frame. She ignored the pain, though, and jogged quickly down the alley as soon as she’d gained her feet.

It was these first minutes that were most critical.

She ducked into the closest subway station, just a block and a half away. Then she stumbled her way to the underground level and got on the first available train.

She just needed to get far enough away that Paul and his security wouldn’t find her, wouldn’t catch her, when they realized she was gone.

She experienced a blinding panic as she huddled into a seat of the mostly empty train. This was surreal, crazy. What the hell was she doing? The fever must have addled her brain to make her think that running away was the best option.

But she kept coming back to one aching truth. It would hurt Paul less if she left now.

And he was the one she had to think about.

So she hugged her bag to her chest and tried not to cry. Her fever, for some reason, wasn’t rising as quickly as it had last time. She could still walk, although her head was pounding now and she was aching all over.

But she had a plan, and she was going to go through with it.

Ten minutes after she’d crawled through the window, her phone started to ring. She knew it was Paul, so she ignored it.

When it kept ringing, she just turned the phone off.

She couldn’t help but imagine what Paul was doing, what Paul was thinking, what Paul was feeling right now.

And she started to cry.

As she struggled to stifle her tears, an elderly woman sitting across from her asked, “Are you all right, honey?”

Emily nodded wetly and managed to answer, “Yeah. Thanks, though.”

Recognizing one of the approaching stops, she got up to exit the train. When she stepped off, she was stumbling, her knees buckling on every step, but she managed to make it to a pay phone.

She couldn’t use her cell phone or Paul would know who she’d called.

When a female voice picked up on the other end, Emily rasped, “Hi, Stacie. It’s me. Emily.”

There was a long pause. Then. “Emily? Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Then she shook her head. She could barely see through the blur of her vision. “No. Not really. Can you come get me? I know it’s a lot to ask after…after everything. But I need help.”

There was another pause, but not as long as the first one. “Sure. Sure, I’ll help. Where are you?”

Emily told her and then hung up the phone. She found an empty bench and huddled in a corner of it, praying Stacie would get here soon.

She hadn’t seen her former step-sister in over six years.

When her father had married Stacie’s mother, the girls had been best friends, but that friendship had broken when the marriage fell apart.

It had been a grief—a real grief—to lose Stacie as a friend, but loyalty to her father was more important.

Emily lost track of time, falling into a feverish stupor, barely able to hold herself upright. Her hair was bothering her, but there was nothing she could do about it. She didn't have the coordination to find an elastic band in her toiletry case.

Stacie found her like that on the bench, and her normally sharp, clever features softened when she saw her. “Oh, hon, what happened?”

“I’m sick,” Emily said, hoping she was speaking lucidly. “Can I stay with you?”

“Of course.” Stacie reached down to help her up. “Come on. Let me get you out of here.”

Emily leaned on Stacie until they’d reached her car. Then she slumped into the passenger seat, still hugging her bag to her chest.

“What happened, Emily?” Stacie asked, as she pulled her car away from the curb. She’d been parked quite illegally in a loading zone. “I thought you were married.”

“I was. I am. I was.” Emily rubbed her face and tried to think. Of course, Stacie deserved an explanation. “It’s not working. I just need somewhere to stay.”

“You can stay with me.” Stacie glanced over at her. “I feel bad about never getting in touch with you, after I heard…after I heard about everything. But I thought you’d still be mad at me, and I didn’t want it to seem like I was…”

“I understand,” Emily mumbled, brushing away a few stray tears. She didn't even know where they had come from. “It’s all right. I was going to call you anyway. I was going to do it before I die.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her folded list.

After she unfolded it, she put her finger under the second item from the bottom. It said, “Make up with Stacie.”

Stacie had stopped at a traffic light, and she read what a twelve-year-old Emily had written there. Her face twisted briefly. “Shit, Emily. You’re gonna make me cry like a girl.”

Emily half-laughed, half-sobbed. “I’m sorry. I should have apologized a long time ago.”

“Me too,” Stacie said, brushing at her eyes impatiently. Her smile was sharp and almost teasing despite her obvious emotion. “I should have reached out to you. I’ve always been the bigger person, after all, and I should be a role model for you in maturity and beneficence.”

Emily huffed softly at her cousin’s attempt at humor and felt a little better.

“So why didn’t things work out with your husband? I was really surprised when I heard you married him, since I always thought him a spoiled, entitled asshole, but—”

“No,” Emily choked, glaring at Stacie in outrage. “He’s not. Don’t call him that. He’s…he’s…wonderful.”

Stacie’s brows drew together. “Then why did you leave him?”

Emily shook her head and couldn’t answer. She just felt too bad to have this conversation, and it hurt too much to think about.

“We can talk about it later,” Stacie murmured, evidently recognizing that Emily wasn’t up to it. “You look like you feel like crap.”

Crap was an understatement, although her fever still hadn’t risen as much or as quickly as it had during her last round of fever, just a few days ago.

“It’s gonna get bad, Stacie,” Emily mumbled, tossing her head restlessly against the headrest. “Sorry to do this to you.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Stacie replied. “I want to help. I should have helped a long time ago.”

TWELVE

Paul was just numb.

His emotions had taken such a battering in the last hour that he couldn’t seem to feel anymore. He sat stiffly behind his desk in the office of the apartment and tried to sort out options and possibilities in his head.

It was useless. His mind was a hopeless blank.

For long, agonizing minutes, he stared at his phone, which—over and over again—didn't ring.

He’d been worried for Emily went she’d gotten up to use the bathroom in the restaurant earlier. She wasn’t looking well. He’d been afraid she might be getting a fever. When ten minutes passed and she hadn’t returned, he’d gone to ask the hostess to check on her.

The other times he'd gotten someone to check on Emily in the restroom, she'd always eventually emerged. This time was different.

When the hostess came out to say that no one was there, Paul had simply barged in. That was when he’d seen her rings lying without explanation by the sink. That was when his concern had shifted into bewildered panic.

The bodyguard escorting him had moved into action immediately, searching the nearby area for Emily and ensuring she hadn’t been abducted. But Paul knew what had happened. She had left her rings behind in an obvious symbol.

She had left him on purpose.

He just didn’t know why.

He’d called her cell phone immediately, but she hadn’t answered. Then he’d kept calling, never getting an answer. He went on what might be called a rampage as he repeatedly dialed Emily's number and demanded information about Emily’s whereabouts from anyone who might know anything.

Jonathon Marks, the head of the security firm he used, had arrived when he’d been on the verge of shaking a man at the newsstand across the street who’d noticed Emily but couldn’t remember which direction she had gone.

Marks had convinced Paul to return to the apartment while the security team carried out the actual search.  Once he’d gotten there, Paul had begun making calls—trying to contact everyone Emily might possibly have turned to for help. No one admitted to having any idea where she was. They all had sounded convincing. Chris had seemed worried and offered to help.

After the calls had been made, Paul’s crisis mode had faded without warning, as if the panicked urgency was simply too much for him to sustain. There wasn’t anything else he could do, and thinking about it hurt too much.

He’d been sitting in his study ever since.

His eyes drifted from the silent phone to his clenched fist. He forced his fingers opened and stared down at the two rings in his palm.

Emily had loved her engagement ring. He still remembered the shocked awe in her eyes when he’d slipped it on her finger in the elevator two months ago. He’d never seen her without it since that moment.

The simple platinum wedding band he held was smaller and slimmer but otherwise matched the one he wore on his left hand.

Emily was supposed to be wearing these rings. She was supposed to be his wife.

He looked at the platinum wedding band on his own hand. He was used to it now. His hand would look naked without it. He liked the sight of the ring, the symbol that he was intimately tied to Emily.

He liked being married. He liked being a husband. And he loved Emily more than anything in the world.

He had no idea why she would have run away from him.

He imagined her finally getting tired of putting up with his tangled life and escaping somewhere she could find peace. He imagined her running away with another man, a man she genuinely loved. He imagined someone secretly blackmailing her over some dark secret and manipulating her into drastic action. He imagined her giving up on a life that was too short and a body that had betrayed her. He imagined every remote possibility that even flickered into his mind.

They all made his chest ache, but none of them were right. None of them were convincing. He just couldn’t believe any of them was why she was gone now.

He clenched his hand back over her rings. The large emerald poked him painfully in the palm, but he just squeezed over it more tightly.

Why didn’t she want his rings anymore? Why didn’t she want him?

It hurt too much. It scared him too much. His mind closes down in response to way too much. He just couldn’t feel anymore.

He was jerked out of his numb stupor by someone clearing his throat in the doorway.

“Talk,” Paul managed to force out, when he recognized Marks through the haze of his vision.

Marks was a professional, competent man in his fifties. He’d had an exemplary Special Forces career before he’d retired and gone into the security business. He was surprisingly distinguished-looking with graying hair and tailored suits, despite the obvious strength and power in his large build. “We’ve found a number of witnesses and have been able to trace her to the subway. We found a woman who, we believe, saw her on the train.”

“What was she doing?” Paul asked.

“According to this woman, she looked pitifully sick and was crying.”

Paul’s heart lurched viscerally at the image of Emily—his Emily—huddled up on the seat of some dirty subway car. Weak, feverish and heartbroken.

If Marks noticed Paul’s response, he ignored it. “We know where she stopped. We’re working on following her route from that point.”

Clearly, Paul’s mind was working much slower than usual because he just now thought of something. “Why can’t we track her through her phone?”

“She turned it off, sir.”

Of course, she had. Paul closed his eyes for a moment. She was sick. He’d seen she wasn’t feeling well this morning and should have paid closer attention, but evidently she’d looked sick to the woman on the subway. If she had a fever, she soon wouldn’t even be able to walk. She wouldn’t be able to take care of herself.

He needed to be there to help her.

“She would call someone for help,” Paul said at last, rubbing his forehead between his fingers and thumb.

“Yes, sir. We’ve checked the records on her phone and the landlines here. We can’t find any suspicious activity in the last few days.”

“A pay phone,” Paul said, opening his hands to look down at Emily’s rings again. “I’m not sure she planned this in advance. It feels…sudden. Check the payphones at the subway stations she used.”

“Yes, sir. We’re working on getting the LUDs on all of those phones. We’ve got contacts in the phone company. It will take a little time for us to receive them, but we’re hoping that will give us a new lead.”

Paul nodded blankly, faintly surprised that he was so slow right now that his security team was so far ahead of him in thinking things through.

He’d spent most of his life thinking more quickly than anyone else.

Trying to feel more normal—and not like this numb, dazed buffoon he’d somehow morphed into—Paul said curtly, “She should not have been able to run away at all. Who is to blame for that negligence?”

Marks didn’t even flinch. “I am, sir. I should have better directed the team who accompanied you and Mrs. Marino this morning.”

Paul stared at the other man, but he couldn’t seem to conjure up an appropriate response. He felt befuddled, almost like a child. It was so unlike him he couldn’t begin to understand it.

“If I can make a suggestion,” Marks began, his expression shifting very slightly. “It might help if you would search Mrs. Marino’s room. We’ve already done so, of course, but you knew her best. Perhaps there’s a clue to where she has gone that you can recognize but we wouldn’t.”

Paul nodded, ludicrously relieved to have something to do other than sit and stew. He should have thought of searching her room himself. He had no idea why he hadn’t.

“I’ll do that,” he said, standing up. His legs felt strangely sore and stiff.

“I’ll report again as soon as I know something more,” Marks said, leaving the study with a nod.

Paul was grateful to be left alone, since he didn’t feel very steady on his feet. He wasn’t usually like this—he usually excelled at handling crises. But Emily hadn’t been taken from him. There was no enemy to fight. There was no one to rescue her from. She had just left him.

She hadn’t wanted to be married to him anymore.

And there might not be anything he could do about it.

He couldn’t think about that reality for long, though, since it hurt so much it might break him. So he took solace in the convenient numbness and walked down the hall toward her room, still holding her rings in one hand.

Emily’s bed was neatly made, but she hadn’t slept in her bed last night anyway. She’d slept in his.

He saw her laptop immediately and pangs of anxiety broke through his numbness. She wouldn’t have willingly left her laptop behind. Maybe she hadn’t left on purpose after all.

He opened the lid to her laptop and frowned when the screen asked for a password. He pulled out his phone and dialed Marks.

“I was going to look through her laptop,” Paul explained when the other man picked up, “Do you have the password?”

“Yes, sir,” Marks replied. “We retrieved that.”

“I’m ready,” Paul said, poising his fingers over the keyboard. He typed out a long series of mostly numbers with a few capital letters and periods. “What is that?” he asked, when Marks had finished.

There was a brief pause. Then, “It’s the geocoding for the exact location of your wedding.”

Paul couldn’t speak as he processed this information. Then he mumbled, “Thanks,” and hung up the phone.

He searched her laptop, but there was no evidence in her email, her documents, or her browser history of any plans she might have made to leave him. Then he searched her drawers. She hadn’t taken many clothes, if any. He noticed an empty spot on her dresser, where he remembered seeing the music box he’d given her for her birthday.

If she’d taken that to the restaurant this morning, then she knew she was going away.

Her list was gone from the nightstand drawer where she kept it.

Paul stood up and walked over to her jewelry box. She hadn’t taken the black pearl necklace he’d gotten her yesterday. She hadn’t taken the antique necklace he’d given her on their wedding day, the one that went with her engagement ring. She hadn’t taken the emerald earrings he’d bought her in New York. But he couldn’t find the bracelet he’d had designed for her as a birthday gift.

He searched the jewelry box twice. Then he looked everywhere else. The bracelet simply wasn’t there.

Maybe she’d taken it with her, even if she hadn’t wanted her rings or all of his other gifts.

Or maybe she’d just left it in the master bedroom, since she’d been wearing it last night.

With nothing left to find in her room, Paul went into the master bedroom. Ruth must have been in earlier, since the bed was made up meticulously. She must have collected the laundry too.

Since there was no sign of the bracelet in the room, Paul wandered toward the kitchen and then into the large laundry room. There, in the pile of clothes that were to be dry-cleaned, he found the black dress Emily had worn the night before.

Paul picked it up. It smelled like Emily—faintly ginger from the lotion she used—and it smelled like sex.

She’d been wearing it last night when they’d made love. Twice.

His knees felt strangely weak, so he sat down on a bench, still breathing in the scent of her dress and remembering how she’d looked, sounded, moved, acted, felt last night.

In spite of all of his need and excitement, he had felt safe with her last night. He’d been able to let himself go, knowing that she would accept him—all of him. Knowing that she wanted him. He had started to wonder if she might feel for him a little of what he felt for her. As he’d held her in his arms just before he went to sleep, he had…hoped.

He should have known he was wrong. He should have known it was far too much to expect. Her living was as much of a miracle as he could ever hope for.

Because, no matter how soft and tender and hot her eyes had been in bed with him last night, the feeling couldn’t have been real.

Not if she’d left him this morning.

“Oh, Mr. Marino,” a familiar voice gasped, breaking into his painful brooding. “What is it? What’s the matter? Is it Mrs. Marino?”

Paul blinked across the laundry room at Ruth, who stood at the entrance looking shocked and distraught. He was hunched over on the bench, still holding the dress near his face so he could smell Emily.

“Is she…” Ruth’s voice broke. “She’s not…”

“No,” Paul rasped, realizing what she thought.  He wasn’t in the condition to sort through what was appropriate or not appropriate to discuss with her. He only knew that Ruth cared about Emily, and that seemed to matter to him.  “Not that. She…she left me.”

It was physically painful to say the words out loud.

Ruth’s expression changed. She looked almost angry. “No! No, sir. She never would’ve done that.”

Paul blinked. He straightened his spine and lowered the dress. “She did.”

Shaking her head insistently, Ruth said, “I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t—not because she wanted to anyway. She loves you too much.”

Paul sucked in a breath and stared at the woman, astonished but desperately craving to hear more. “What do you mean?”

Ruth looked a little confused but deeply sympathetic. “I’m sorry, sir. I know it’s not my place. I know maybe your marriage isn’t…isn’t a traditional one. But it’s a good one for both of you, and it’s plain as anything that she’s loving you more every day.”

Paul couldn’t speak. He just stared at Ruth, wondering, hoping, praying she was speaking the truth.

Ruth sounded more confident as she continued, as if she could see Paul wanted to hear what she had to say. “She never would’ve left because she wanted to. If she left, she did it for you. Sir.” The last word was a hurried afterthought.

Deep, frantic hope nudged at the numbed edges of Paul’s mind. He started to see a pattern here, a possibility—one that was actually convincing, one that felt right. “For me?”

Ruth made a small gesture with one hand. “Maybe she thought her leaving would make things easier on you. Whatever it is, it’s not because she doesn’t want to be with you. That I know for sure.”

He took a shuddering breath and made himself think clearly. Maybe…

He could think of one reason—one absolutely insane, ridiculous, nonsensical reason—Emily might think it would be easier for him if she weren’t around.

Paul stood up abruptly, compelled by a rising force of emotion that felt almost like rage. Surely she wouldn’t have …she wouldn’t have…

Ruth quickly got out of the way as he strode out of the laundry room, almost blind with the whirl of ideas and feelings that had just hit him like a wave.

If she’d left for him, then she was, for some reason, convinced she was going to die. And he knew she would still want to complete her list—she’d taken it with her, after all.

He remembered the few remaining items on the list. One was climbing the volcano. Two of them she wouldn’t have the resources to do on her own. One he preferred not to think about and had been ignoring since he’d originally seen it.

But there was one other item. One that made the final piece click into place.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed Marks. When he answered, Paul said, “She has a former step-sister named Stacie…” He wracked his mind, trying to come up with the last name.

“Stacie Laurel,” Marks replied, “Yes, sir.”

“She might have—”

“Yes, sir.” Marks’s interrupting Paul was a clear sign that the man was unusually excited. “We just got the LUDs from the payphones and there was a call to Stacie Laurel made from one of them at 10:43 this morning. We have her address. Would you like to—”

“Get me over there,” Paul bit out, striding down the hall toward the main door and belatedly realizing he was still holding Emily’s dress.

He dropped the dress on his way out the door.  The rings he kept clenched in his fist.

***

Paul pounded on the door of Stacie Laurel’s small apartment in a much less affluent part of Center City.

It felt oddly surreal. By this point of the day, he was worked up emotionally to such an extent that the man—perspiring in the stuffy hallway and gripping two women’s rings in his hand—must be someone else, someone other than Paul Marino.

When no one answered immediately to his knock, he pounded on the door again and had to force himself not to shout to be let in.

Eventually, the door was swung open by an attractive, brown-haired, young woman with a slightly strained expression. She just stared when she saw who he was.

For just a moment, the stunned look on her face took Paul aback, and he wondered if maybe his conclusion was wrong. Maybe Emily wasn’t here after all, and he’d just tried to barge in on a random woman’s Sunday morning.

But then he saw that Stacie was holding a damp washcloth. And he knew.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“What are you doing here?” Stacie asked, sounding stressed and a little annoyed.

“I’m here to find my wife. Let me in.” Now that he was so close to Emily, he was having trouble controlling himself. He tried to walk into the apartment, even without an invitation.

Stacie blocked his way. “You can’t just barge in here,” she snapped. “This is my home.”

“And she’s my wife.” Paul rubbed his damp forehead in frustration. “She’s sick.  She needs me. You’re not doing her any favors by keeping me away from her.”

When Stacie just stood in place, Paul tried to shoulder past her, finally at the end of his patience. Emily was close. He could feel it. She was sick. He had to get to her.

But he couldn’t get through. Someone else was in the apartment, someone Paul hadn’t seen until now.

Chris Mason had moved in front of Stacie, blocking the doorway with his broad frame and putting a hand on Paul’s chest to hold him back by force. Chris and Paul were probably pretty evenly matched.

In outrage and disbelief, Paul practically growled. “Damn it, Chris. What are you doing? You knew how worried I was about her, and you lied to me anyway.”

“I didn’t know where she was when we talked,” Chris explained. “Stacie called me afterwards because she was worried about her.”

“Why the hell didn’t you call me?” Paul looked at Stacie over Chris’s shoulder. “I’ve been searching all over for her. Let me in!” The thought of Emily—sick, helpless, alone in Stacie’s bedroom—twisted his gut.

“Go away, Paul,” Stacie told him, looking even more strained. “This is my apartment. You don’t have the right to be here.”

Paul almost choked. “I don’t have the right—Damn it, I’m her husband. Of course, I have the right!”

Then he heard a familiar sound, coming from the room beyond the partly opened door across the living room. Emily was crying out in a muffled, anguished tone.

She was crying out for him.

Paul pushed against Chris’s restraining hand. “She’s asking for me,” he gritted out. “Get out of the way!”

“She doesn’t want to see you,” Stacie objected, looking pained and slightly bewildered. “She said not to call you, no matter what.”

It hurt. Even though he thought he understood why she'd said it, it hurt and outraged him that Emily would have made such a point of keeping him away from her. He made himself move past the pain, though. She needed him.

“I don’t care what she said,” Paul began, almost shaking with frustration. He wanted desperately to hit Chris, but he knew it would only make things worse. “She—” When he heard Emily cry out again, he broke off abruptly. “Someone go help her, if you’re not going to let me!”

Stacie gave him one last torn look and hurried back into the bedroom.

Paul took a raspy breath. “Chris, she’s sick. She has a fever. She’s not thinking clearly. She needs me.”

Chris now looked as torn as Stacie had. He glanced over his shoulder at the opened door of the bedroom where Emily was lying.

“I love her, Chris,” Paul said, his voice thick as he tried again. He was going to hit his panic button in about thirty more seconds. “I love her. Let me in.”

Chris stared at Paul for a tense moment. Then he dropped his arm and stepped out of the doorway.

With a sigh of relief, Paul strode across Stacie’s living room toward the bedroom. Toward Emily.

When he reached the room, he barely registered the colorful curtains and bedding or Stacie leaning over the bed with a damp washcloth.

Paul only saw Emily, small, pale, damp, tossing in discomfort. So incredibly sick.

“Oh, baby,” he rasped, his heart aching with an almost unbearable pressure. He hurried over to the bedside. “Baby, I’m here.”

She whimpered and writhed restlessly, pushing down the sheet. Her hair was loose. It was falling in her eyes, sticking to her neck and her perspiring face. Her eyes were opened but she didn’t seem to see him. “Paul,” she mumbled, “Paul, don’t. Please don’t.”

“I’m here, Emily,” he said, reaching out to stroke her damp hair away from her face. “It’s all right.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t respond except with another pained whimper. Her eyes were seeing something that just wasn’t there.

Stacie was trying to cool her face down, but it wasn’t appearing to help very much.

“How long has she been delirious like this?” he asked.

Stacie gave a helpless shrug. “A couple of hours. She was sick from the beginning, but she was conscious. She said she wouldn’t need a doctor—she just needed to get through the fever. But when she got delirious, I was scared. I didn’t know what to do, so I called Chris, who I knew was her friend. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I wanted to when she started calling out for you, but she told me not to. I just didn’t know—”

Paul brushed off her words. He simply didn’t have the emotional energy to remain angry with Stacie. It was worrisome that Emily had become delirious so soon into her fever. The delirium usually didn’t happen until the very end. While she wasn’t as frantic and violent as she normally was, she was so completely out of it that his heart started to pound in growing panic.

“Do you have a bathtub?” he asked. At Stacie’s affirmation, he continued, “Can you draw a bath for her? Lukewarm—not hot but not too cold. That usually helps. And do you have a couple of those elastic band things to pull back her hair?”

Stacie got up immediately, handing him the wet washcloth and looking relieved that she wasn’t in the position of figuring out what to do anymore. She went to the bathroom, and Paul adjusted himself on the edge of the bed, learning against the headboard so he could reach Emily more easily. He wiped her hot face and had to resist the temptation to pull her into his arms.

When Stacie returned with the elastic bands, Paul pulled Emily’s hair into the two low ponytails that helped to keep it out of her face. Then he pulled down the sheet to expose Emily’s body.

She was wearing shorts and a tank-top, and her small body was obviously wracked with pain. Her limbs flailed occasionally, and she shook and shuddered as she kept babbling out mostly incoherently thoughts. She said his name a lot though, mostly in the context of trying to warn him off something, not to go somewhere.

“The bath is ready,” Stacie said, from the doorway of the bathroom. “Do you need help—”

Paul shook his head and gently pulled off Emily’s top. Her bare breasts were soft and round, and they bounced slightly with the motion. Under normal circumstances, Paul would have found her body highly distracting, but he was always too wrapped up in care and anxiety to think about sex when she was sick.

Emily’s discomfort seemed to grow quickly more intense. She started to arch up more dramatically and babble out more loudly. Paul had to struggle to get off the rest of her clothes.

“No!” Emily screamed, her voice suddenly so loud that Paul jerked in surprise. “No! Not there! Paul, no!” Her blue eyes were wild and focused intently on a blank spot in the air. “The fire! The fire!”

“It’s all right, baby,” Paul murmured hoarsely, trying to gather her writhing body in his arms. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She struggled in his grip, frantic and uncontrollable. He didn’t know what had happened. She’d seemed delirious, but much calmer just a minute ago. One of her fists landed on his cheek, hitting him with so much force his eyes watered. “No! Paul, don’t! The fire! You’ll burn! No! Get out! Get out!”

She was screaming at the top of her voice and fighting like a wildcat. He couldn’t hold her still. She fisted one hand in his shirt and pulled it so hard it ripped the seam.

Paul’s eyes glazed over with rising panic, just as he always felt when she reached this height of fever-hysteria. But it seemed worse this time. It ripped his heart out. She used to fight him in her delirium. Now she seemed to be fighting to save him.

“I’m right here,” he rasped, trying to gather her again in his arms and hold her still enough to carry her to the tub.  She was so incredibly hot he didn’t think it was possible to survive it. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

She was unnaturally strong, contorting herself out of his grip. When he’d released her briefly to reposition himself, her spine arched up dramatically. Her eyes were wide open in terror, a shocking blue against her pale skin, and her mouth was wide open in a silent scream of anguish.

Paul couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand it. She was suffering so much, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. The pain was so sharp he just froze, staring down at her.

“Oh my God,” Stacie mumbled, coming over to the bed. There were a couple of tears on her face. “It’s just awful. The poor thing.”

Her words managed to distract Paul from his paralysis, and he bent down to gather Emily up again. This time, he was able to grip her tightly enough that he could drag her squirming form up from the bed and carry her to the bathroom.

She started screaming again, begging him to stay away, not to come close, to get out of the fire. At one point, when she kicked out against his grip, he almost dropped her.

He managed to reach the bathtub, however, and knelt down on the floor as he tried to lower her into the tepid water. She was still struggling, so he had to lean over until he was halfway in the tub himself in order to hold her still.

“Can you make sure she doesn’t bang her head or get her face underwater?” he asked Stacie, who was behind him. He was appalled to hear how weak and strained his voice sounded.

Stacie came over immediately and held Emily’s tossing head while Paul restrained her flailing arms and legs.

She was still screaming desperately—now it was mostly just, “Paul, no! Paul, no! Paul, no!” Over and over again.

“Why does she think you’re going to burn?” Stacie asked at one point, clearly deeply upset by the violent delirium.

Paul just shrugged. He knew. He was almost certain he knew, but it wasn’t something he could tell a stranger. It wasn’t something he could tell anyone.

Emily thought that his loving her would break him.

She might be right.

* * *

The bath lowered Emily’s fever. After several long minutes, she grew quiet. Although she still shifted restlessly in the water, she stopped her frantic screaming and flailing.

Paul let her soak for a long time, relieved when her body finally softened and her eyes closed. She seemed almost unconscious now, but she was still breathing. And she was finally not actively suffering.

When the crisis had been averted, Stacie got up and said, “If you’re all right with her for now, I’m going to send Chris home.”

Paul nodded distractedly. He’d actually completely forgotten about Chris.

Paul stayed kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, leaning on the edge of the tub and wiping Emily’s warm face with a cool washcloth. She seemed almost peaceful now, and he started to hope that maybe this round of fever had broken completely.

If it had, its span had been incredibly short. And maybe—maybe—that was a very good sign.

He tried not to hope too much, but he desperately needed some sort of encouragement. Emily’s body was small and pale in the water. Her face looked delicate, almost childish, with her hair pulled into the two ponytails.

She wasn’t a child, though. She was an incredibly generous, strong, resilient, sunny, smart, loving, extraordinary woman. And he wasn’t sure what he would do without her.

“Paul,” she breathed, her eyes still closed, her thick eyelashes fanned out against her white skin. “Please don’t.”

“It’s too late,” he murmured. He didn’t know if she could hear him, if she could understand him. But he said it anyway, as he started to drain the water and lifted her gently from the tub. “It’s too late, baby. I already do.”

He dried her off as much as he could and carried her back to the bed. He searched the dresser drawers until he found an oversized t-shirt and pulled it over her head. Then he covered her up with the sheet and comforter.

Her skin felt a lot cooler. Her fever seemed to have broken completely. Maybe—maybe—it had.

Paul’s long-sleeved shirt was soaked and ripped so he just pulled it off, keeping on the white t-shirt he’d been wearing beneath it. It was damp too, but not unwearably so. Then he took off his shoes and stretched out on the bed beside Emily.

It was just early afternoon, but he was utterly exhausted. Emily was here, though, and she seemed, for the moment, to be all right.

So he allowed himself to indulge in the luxury of relaxing.

* * *

Emily woke up four hours later.

She’d slept peacefully for the most part, and her fever hadn’t come back. Her temperature was normal, which meant this round of fever had lasted for less than twelve hours, rather than the forty-eight plus hours that her most recent fevers had lasted.

“Paul,” Emily gasped, as she started out of her sleep.

Stacie had gone to buy some groceries so Paul was alone with Emily in the apartment.

“I’m here,” Paul murmured, his voice still hoarse from the strain of the day. He was beside her on the bed, so all he had to do was reach out for her.

She came into his arms willingly, her eyes still blurry from sleep. “Paul,” she murmured, this time in obvious contentment as she nestled against him.

His body was much warmer than hers was now, which was an immense relief. She was small and soft and clingy against him, and Paul held her as tightly as he could without hurting her.

She buried her face in his t-shirt and seemed to doze off again for a few minutes.

Then she woke up for real.

She stiffened in his arms and sucked in a surprised breath. “No,” she gasped. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I am supposed to be here,” he objected mildly, determined not to get impatient with her, no matter how stubborn and unreasonable she was going to be.

“I told them not to call you.”

“I know. That was very stupid of you.” He didn’t let her pull out of his arms like she was trying. “But you were feverish so I’ll forgive you this time. They didn’t call me. I found you on my own.”

“But—” Emily’s voice cracked with emotion. Her body was tightening. Then it was shaking. “But I didn’t want…I was trying…”

His heart twisted when she started to cry. She was struggling to get away from him, but he held her close. “I know what you were trying to do, but it wouldn’t do any good. I have to be with you.”

She choked on her sobs, and her body shook desperately against his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never meant…I thought it would be better for you if…”

“I know what you thought.” Despite the raw ache in his chest, he couldn’t help but feel a warm wave of awed gratitude that someone—that Emily—cared about him so much she’d make such an outrageous, ridiculous gesture. For him. “But it’s just too late to pull back now.”

“No,” she sobbed, clutching at the fabric in the back of his shirt. “I never meant to hurt you. I can’t stand that I did this to you. I can’t stand that you’ll be hurt when I…when I…”

“Stop it,” he demanded, unable to listen to any more. He pulled back slightly and lifted her chin so he could see her wet face, twisting with deep emotion. “Listen to me! You didn’t do this to me. I went into this marriage fully understanding the situation. And why have you decided there’s no hope for a cure?”

“But the treatment didn’t work. And I got another fever.” She looked dazed, confused, but unexpectedly hopeful—as if things weren’t as desperate as she’d assumed.

“I know it didn’t work like we hoped, but how do you know they’re not close to a cure? This fever didn’t last nearly as long as they normally do. That seems to me to be a very good sign. Maybe the treatment had some effect. Maybe they’re getting close. You’re just going to give up?”

She blinked at him, tears poised on her eyelashes. “I never believed in miracles.”

“Me either. If it was a miracle, you’d already be cured after one try. It’s not a miracle. They’ve got a lot of information, and maybe they can do something with it. I’m not going to give up on a good possibility after just one try.”

“Oh.”

“Emily?” he prompted after a minute, not sure what her expression meant and a little afraid of the lengths he might go if she still decided she didn’t want to fight for her life or be married to him anymore.

She released a long sigh that he understood as acquiescence. Her expression relaxed, and her eyes were suddenly very warm and fond as she gazed at him across the few inches of distance. But her mouth twisted briefly before she said, “I never wanted you to…to…”

“Love you?” he finished for her, when her words trailed off in self-consciousness. “I do.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, and her body shook a few times in response.

Paul reached into the pocket of his trousers. “Do you think you can put your rings back on?” He showed her the engagement ring and wedding band in his left hand, where his own wedding band was still in place on his ring finger. “Please?”

She stared at the rings for a long moment. Then she nodded. “I’m sorry. I should never have taken them off.”

He reached under the covers until he found her left hand. He slipped on the wedding band and then the engagement ring, and he released a long breath when they were in place again there. “Please don’t leave me again.”

“I’m sorry,” Emily choked, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I thought it would be better for you. I couldn’t seem to think…I don’t know what happened.”

“You had a fever,” he said, his chest unclenching as he realized this was actually true. She hadn’t wanted to leave him. She hadn’t done so consciously or willfully. She’d been sick and desperate—and she’d been so afraid of hurting him. “You were scared. But please don’t do it again.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “I’m so sorry if I hurt you.”

When he felt her relaxing against him, he began to relax too. They held each other for a long time in silence, on the cusp between grief and hope.

“Paul?” Emily breathed, finally breaking the silence.

“What, baby?”

“Maybe you already know. But I love you too.”

***

Paul was carrying Emily’s bag so, as they arrived at the apartment, he walked with her to her bedroom.

For some reason, it irrationally bothered him that she had her own bedroom in their home. It had been necessary at the beginning, when they weren’t sleeping together. Even now it made sense because she was so often ill, and it was convenient for her to have her own bed.

But it still bothered him. As ridiculous as it was to get hung up on such a thing at this moment, the idea nagged at him intensely. As Emily kicked off her shoes and sat down with a sigh on the edge of the bed, he was sorely tempted to suggest they move all of her stuff into the master bedroom.

Emily was still pale and there were dark circles under her eyes, which somehow looked too large for her face. “You all right?” she asked, her expression a little nervous.

He smiled as he set her bag onto the bed next to her. “Of course. Better than all right.”

She smiled back at him. “I’m trying not to get too excited. This new treatment might not work any better than the first.”

They’d stayed at Stacie’s apartment the night before, since Emily had been too weak from the fever to go home the previous evening. This morning they’d gotten a call from Dr. Franklin about another treatment he wanted to try.

It was experimental, of course, but the potential side effects were minimal and they had nothing to lose at this point.

Paul was allowing himself to hope. Things had never worked out perfectly in his life. Nothing ever came easy. And the people he loved left him. Or they didn’t love him back.

But Emily had said that she did love him, and part of him actually believed it was true. And now there was hope that she wouldn’t even have to die.

It was too much to process, so he had to force the swell of uninhibited hope back down into the safe, dark corners of his mind. He just didn't believe he'd be given quite so much—that he'd be allowed to have what he so desperately wanted. Which might be why he’d been obsessing about the much more inconsequential idea of Emily’s having her own room instead of sharing with him.

“Paul?” Emily prompted, when he hadn’t responded to her last comment. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” he told her. He swallowed and experienced a familiar resistance to speaking the truth openly to someone, to anyone—even though he knew it was safe with her. “I’m trying not to get too excited too.”

Her face relaxed into a grin. Then she started to pull things out of her bag—the Riverside Shakespeare, the music box he’d given her for her birthday, the clothes she’d worn the previous day.

The last two days had forced Paul into emotional overload, and he was too drained to process any feeling with intensity at the moment. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, but he felt like he could sleep for hours. Despite his mental and physical exhaustion, however, he was still oddly touched by seeing what Emily had taken with her when she thought she was leaving him for good.

It was another sign—however small—that she’d been telling him the truth when she’d said she loved him.

“I think I need a nap,” Emily said, starting to pull off her sweater with a yawn. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Paul said, trying not to get distracted by the sight of Emily in her bra. “You can rest all day. I need to catch up on some work anyway.”

She took off her bra and pulled on an oversized t-shirt. Then she pushed off her jeans and pulled on a pair of sweats. She wasn’t at all self-conscious. It was as if she’d barely processed the fact that she was undressing in front of him. She was obviously tired and still recovering from being ill, and she just wanted to get more comfortable to take a nap.

But Paul’s body didn’t make that kind of distinction. It just saw her taking off her clothes, saw her firm breasts and soft ass. He felt a sharp tug of interest in his groin.

“You all right?” Emily asked again as she climbed into bed. She looked a little concerned, probably wondering why he was standing stiffly and staring at her like an idiot.

“Yes,” Paul assured her, pleased he sounded somewhat natural. “Try to get some rest.”

He left her to her nap and walked toward the master bedroom. There, when it was clear that his body still hadn’t lost interest, he decided to take a shower.

He turned the water on hot, and he adjusted the settings so the rain shower head as well as the sixteen body jets were all spraying out on him.

For some reason, it felt like he’d run a marathon. His body was actually sore from the emotional ups and downs of the last two days. It hadn’t been very long since he’d had sex—it was Monday morning now, and just Saturday night he and Emily had had what might have been the best sex of his life—but his body needed yet another release, some way to channel everything he’d felt since then.

So, after he’d let the water beat down on him for several minutes, he reached down to pump his erection. He closed his eyes, picturing Emily beneath him, that soft affection in her gaze. He could see her eyes hooded with hot desire for him, her mouth supple and tender, her body arching up with need, her breasts bouncing shamelessly with her motion, her nipples tight and straining for his touch, her legs wrapping eagerly around him, her voice hoarse from screaming his name.

Paul came hard in the shower with a long, thick groan. His eyes still closed, the water still massaging him all over, he breathed raggedly and tried to relax. But the first climax wasn’t enough and he pumped himself again, imagining Emily wrapping herself around him, gasping out how much she loved him. The image was so powerful he came again without warning.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He’d never been like this in his life, even back when he was fifteen and thinking about sex every minute of the day.

He assumed his body would eventually become accustomed to wanting Emily so much and wouldn’t always act so ludicrously needy.

He stayed in the shower for a half-hour, which was something he almost never did, and he did feel a lot better when he finally got out.

Although he was so relaxed afterwards that he was tempted to take a nap with Emily, he went to his office instead. As soon as he checked his messages, his mind was immediately diverted, and he lost track of time as he quickly became wrapped up in work.

So he was surprised when Emily came into the office with a tray of food. A quick look at the clock told him the astonishing fact that it was almost one-thirty in the afternoon.

“I thought you must be hungry,” she explained. “You should eat some lunch.” She was still wearing the t-shirt and sweats she'd changed into earlier.

Paul rubbed his eyes and tried to pull himself out of the proposal he’d been writing. “Thanks. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

She smiled at him fondly, put a plate and a bottle of water in front of him, and sat down in the chair beside the desk. She’d brought a plate for herself too. “I figured,” she murmured, opening her bottle of water. “I’m impressed by your powers of concentration. I don’t think I’ve ever been so absorbed in work that I forget to eat.”

Her tone was teasing, and Paul couldn’t help but enjoy the affection in her eyes and her tone.

“Is everything all right?” Emily added, nodding toward his computer screen. “Did you get really behind?”

“No,” he said, after taking a bite of his sandwich. “It’s fine. Actually, it’s good. I was actually given something real to do. I’m putting together a proposal now, and I’m to present it to the board on Wednesday.”

“Something real? So they’re giving you more responsibilities?”

“Maybe. I’m sure this is a test too, but if the board likes what I put together, then maybe...”

“Of course, they’ll like it!”

He gave a half-shrug, although her outraged tone made him smile. “Most of them still think of me as a boy—and not a very responsible one. They’re not going to be swayed easily.”

Emily frowned. “That’s ridiculous. They’ll see how great you are in no time.”

Paul smiled again at her indignant expression, touched that she was so defensive on his account. “Thanks. We’ll see.”

As they ate, they talked over what Paul was putting in his proposal. And she even gave him some good ideas about his strategy on a few points. When they’d finished lunch, Paul went back to work, and Emily said she was going to take it easy and read Shakespeare that afternoon.

Paul worked until Emily came in at seven o’clock that evening and dragged him out to have dinner on the terrace with her. Since he was almost done with the proposal, he went back to his office to finish it up after dinner. He finished and was rereading it for the third time when Emily came in at around eleven, wearing a slinky purple nightgown that was semi-transparent.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Are you ever coming to bed?”

Paul’s body clenched in desire as he stared at her luscious body in that gown. “I’m done,” he said quickly, saving his document and then shutting down his computer. “I’m done now.”

She frowned at him as they walked together toward the master bedroom.

“How are you feeling?” Paul asked, trying to look beyond her gorgeous body and tousled hair to see signs of whether she was fully recovered or not. Her cheeks were flushed, but her eyes still looked tired.

“Fine,” she told him. “Did you get your proposal done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you can relax a little.” When they got into the bedroom, she twined her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Paul kissed her back eagerly, lifting her up so her legs wrapped around his waist. He carried her over to the bed and eased her down so she was sprawled out beneath him.

His body tightened almost immediately, and he kissed her long and deep.

When he finally pulled his head back, he breathed raggedly as he stared down at her.

Her eyes were hot, soft, and a little groggy. “I love you, Paul,” she whispered. “You know that, right?”

He stifled a moan of pleasure as his hips gave an involuntary little thrust against her. “I love you too, baby.”

He kissed her again. They were still kissing and he was starting to unfasten his pants when he heard a familiar ringtone.

With a groan of frustration, he tore himself away from her warm, soft clinginess. “That’s security. I better see what’s going on,” he said, standing up as he connected the call.

He listened to Tim for a minute on the other end of the line. “Okay,” he said. “Just a minute.”

Emily was sitting up on the bed now, and her eyes were very wide. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” he assured her, “It’s fine. There’s no danger. I just need to take care of something.  I’ll be back in just a minute.”

“Okay.”

As he started to leave, he glanced back at her over his shoulder, his body and heart resisting the idea of leaving a passionate, rumpled Emily in bed, even just momentarily. But he made himself be reasonable. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine. Just come back soon.” She didn’t look annoyed, so he was able to leave the room without further apologies.

He was only gone for five minutes, and his body was still anticipating Emily waiting in bed for him on his return.

She was still in bed when he came back into the room. She was still looking irresistibly sensual with her loose hair and slinky nightgown. She was still sprawled out on top of the covers.

But she was also sound asleep.

Paul stared down at her blankly for a long minute, trapped between surprise, irony, and frustration. He was deeply tempted to wake her up so he could have the sex he desperately wanted.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She'd been so sick just the day before.

Instead, with a stifled groan, he went to take yet another shower.

THIRTEEN

Emily woke up aching all over.

As she stretched out under the covers of the big bed in the master bedroom, she processed how she felt, what it meant.

She’d had another fever yesterday, but it had broken just before midnight. She didn’t have a fever now. She just felt sore and aching and like she had no energy at all.

Her body was probably just protesting the toll the fevers were taking on it. So even on her good days she might not really feel good.

Since she’d started the experimental treatments, the rhythm of her fevers had changed. The fevers came more often, but they didn’t last as long. So she’d been sick on Sunday, when Paul had found her at Stacie’s. Then she’d been well on Monday. Sick on Tuesday. Today was Wednesday. Today she should feel well.

But she didn’t.

She wondered if she’d ever really feel well again.

Feeling a heavy weight in her chest, she pulled the covers up over her head, wanting to hide, wanting it all to go away. But, even as she did, a flicker of thought reminded her that she would go in for another round of the latest treatment today.

It might be a slim hope, but it was something.

She turned her head and stared at Paul’s empty side of the bed. The covers were rumpled. He’d gotten in bed with her late last night, after her fever had broken and she’d been well enough to sleep with him. A glance at the clock told her it was almost eight in the morning. Paul had probably been up for at least a couple of hours.

She sat up with a jerk as she realized what day it was. Then she scrambled out of bed and hurried barefoot out of the room, down the hall, and into Paul’s office.

He was there, as she’d expected, sitting in front of his computer and looking sleek and professional in his black suit and silver tie.

“Hey,” she said, feeling a pull of emotion in her chest at the sight of him.

He turned around in his desk chair at the sound of her voice. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she lied. “How are you?”

The smile on his face faded as he studied her, and he ignored her question. “You don’t look like you feel fine. Did the fever come back?”

“No,” she assured him, walking over to where he was seated. “I’m not sick. I’m just tired.”

He reached out for her, and she let him pull her into his lap. She didn’t protest when he felt her forehead, since it would only prove to him she didn’t have a fever.

“How are you?” she asked, when he dropped his hand. The way his gray eyes rested on her face made her feel a little self-conscious, since she’d literally just rolled out of bed. Her hair was messy, and she wore only a little tank and boxer shorts.

“I’m fine,” Paul murmured.

“You ready for today?”

“Yes. As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“The board meeting will go well, I’m sure,” she said, smiling at him encouragingly. His shoulders were stiff, and she could tell he was stressed about the meeting today—when he presented his big proposal to the board. “You’ve done a great job preparing and have covered more bases than most people would even know were on the field.”

Paul smiled faintly at her extended analogy, the way he always did when he thought she’d been clever in her choice of words. “Thank you. I hope so.”

She reached her arms up to hug him and was touched and relieved when he hugged her back. His arms tightened around her with more strength than she expected. And she realized, with a swell of her heart, that he was taking encouragement, strength from her.

She knew he was more nervous about the meeting today than he would ever admit.

“I wish I could go with you,” she said, pulling away. “Even if I couldn’t come to the meeting itself, I could be there waiting.”

Paul shook his head. “You need to get your treatment. There’s no reason for you to waste your time hovering. It’s really no big deal.”

Emily knew it was a big deal, but she didn’t press the point. She was starting to learn more about how to deal with him. And, when something ran deep with him, the more she pushed bullheadedly into his privacy, the more he was likely to shrink away.

“Okay,” she said casually, pulling away from him and getting to her feet, “I need coffee and a shower. You’re not going to leave until nine, right?”

“Right.”

Emily started to walk out of the office, but glanced back once from the doorway. Paul had turned back toward his computer, and he was busy typing again. For some reason, for no good reason, he looked young, vulnerable.

She wondered, with an ache so deep her face twisted helplessly, what he would do when—if—she died. He would be so incredibly alone.

She almost choked on the question and hurried away, not wanting him to look back and see the tears reflected on her face. By the time she got a mug of coffee and took a shower, she’d controlled the emotion. She managed to dress, put on a little makeup, and dry her hair, but by the time she was finished, she was utterly wiped out.

She didn’t have a fever, but her body hurt anyway. She sat down to put on her shoes, but couldn’t seem to do it. She hunched over, breathed deeply, tried to tell herself this was ridiculous. She wasn’t going to give into this.

This was one of her good days, and she needed to be there for Paul today. He didn’t need to be worrying about her.

“Emily?”  Paul’s voice broke into her concentration, surprising her so much she jerked. He walked over to the bed, his face tight with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling at him brightly. “I’m just more tired than I thought.

He frowned, his eyes deep and observant. “You look like it’s more than feeling tired. I can reschedule this meeting so—”

“No!” she interrupted sharply. “I’m really fine. I don’t want you to reschedule. The meeting is important.”

He put an arm around her, pulling her against his side. “You’re more important to me than the meeting.”

She swallowed hard, wanting to burrow into him. He was strong, and he loved her. It felt like he could always keep her safe.

But she wouldn’t let herself indulge the feeling. No matter how sick and weak she felt, she needed to be strong for him too. “I know,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “Thank you. But you’re important to me. You need to go to the meeting today and show them how incredible you are, how ready you are for responsibility. I’m really fine.”

She didn’t say it—since she knew Paul would object—but she also needed to know that Paul would have something to pour himself into if she died. He needed his position at Simone’s to give him purpose, or he would have nothing.

Paul nodded slowly. “Okay. Send me a text as soon as you’re done with the treatment and if Dr. Franklin has any results from the blood test, so I’ll know what’s happening.”

“I will.” She leaned over to kiss him. “And you come right home after the meeting, no matter what happens.”

“I will.”

* * *

Despite what he’d asked her, Emily didn’t send Paul a text message immediately. She didn't until she’d gotten back to the apartment from the lab.

She needed the length of the ride home to figure out what to say.

She didn’t want to give any details, since it might upset Paul and distract him from what he needed to do and say at the meeting. But she also didn’t want to lie to him.

So she finally decided on a brief message: “I’m done. Everything’s fine. About the same.”

It was true. According to Dr. Franklin, the treatments hadn’t stopped or significantly affected the progress of the virus, but it was too soon to tell very much.

Despite the doctor’s insistence of putting everything in perspective and not getting too upset about tiny changes that might mean anything, Emily was a little bit crushed. She knew Paul would be too.

That could wait until after his meeting, however.

She changed into a stretchy t-shirt and dark blue yoga pants. Then she ate some lunch and went to stretch out on the couch in the media room to read some Shakespeare.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

She wasn’t conscious of anything until she heard a phone ring.

She blinked as awareness broke painfully into her groggy mind. Her body was still aching, and she couldn’t seem to open her eyes.

The ringing had stopped, and a male voice had taken its place. It was familiar enough to make her go through the effort of opening her eyes.

She saw Paul sitting on the foot of the sofa, talking softly on the phone. He was still wearing his black suit and silver tie.

Realizing he was home and the meeting was over, she fought against the heavy haze of sleep until she could sit up. She waited as patiently as she could, listening to one side of his phone conversation. It was about work, but she couldn’t really follow what it might mean.

When he hung up, she asked, “Why didn’t you wake me up? How did the meeting go?”

He frowned at her. “Why didn’t you tell me that Dr. Franklin’s report wasn’t good?”

“It was fine. What I said in the text was true—there wasn’t much change.”

“Except these new treatments aren’t working.”

He sounded clipped and cool, but she knew it was just because he was as disappointed as she’d been earlier.

“Dr. Franklin said that blood chemistry changes daily, hourly, and we can’t get too hung up on small changes like that.”

“I know. He told me that too when I called him. But you should have told me to begin with.”

“I wasn’t going to have you get upset and distracted during the meeting,” she said, sticking out her chin. “I should have done exactly what I did.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly torn between agreement with the sense of her decision and annoyance that she’d taken it out of his control.

“Are you going to tell me how the meeting went?” she demanded.

“It was fine,” he said with a sigh. “It was good.”

“So…”

“They were really impressed.” His expression had changed as he let go of his disapproval. He looked almost sheepish now, as if he were a little embarrassed by admitting he was pleased by something he’d worked so hard to make happen. “They’re going to give me that project and probably some more responsibilities.”

She squealed in excitement, forgetting their little squabble, and threw herself at him in a hug. He hugged her back, and she could feel some sort of shuddering excitement in his body.

He was more pleased by the outcome of the meeting than he would ever say out loud.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said against his shoulder. “You’re going to be so good at this.”

His arms tightened briefly, but he didn’t answer. She didn’t really expect him to.

When she finally pulled away, Paul was frowning. “Did Dr. Franklin think—”

“Paul, don’t,” she interrupted, “Please. I don’t want to get all worried and depressed about the virus today. We don’t know what it means. I’ll go back on Friday. Let’s wait and see what happens. If it’s worse then, we can get worried. We've had really good news about you. I just can’t…I don’t want to get all upset about me today.”

He looked at her for a long time in silence. Then his face softened. “All right.”

She peered at him. “You’re not going to be secretly brooding, are you? I want us to have a good evening.”

“We’ll have a good evening,” he said with a smile.

She realized he was just doing what she was doing—pushing the worry to the back of his mind so it wouldn’t be a distraction. But it was the best either of them could manage. And at least they could have an evening of enjoying Paul’s victory, of enjoying each other.

She would probably have another fever tomorrow.

“What do you want to do tonight?” she asked.

His expression changed palpably, causing her to suck in her breath. “I can think of at least one thing I’d like to do tonight.”

She smiled back. Then kind of slid across the couch until she was straddling his lap. “There’s no reason to wait until tonight for that,” she murmured.

She was still tired and kind of achy. She wasn’t really in the mood for sex. But she wanted to be close to Paul, and she knew he needed this kind of release.

They hadn’t had sex since Saturday night, after she’d taunted him into chasing her in her gorgeous black dress. There was no reason why Paul needed to wait any longer for what he needed.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his hands settling on her hips. “I didn’t think you were feeling very well.”

“I feel well enough for this.” Then she kissed him.

He kissed her back, and he got urgent very quickly. It wasn’t long until he was devouring her mouth and squeezing her bottom, pressing her pelvis against the tight bulge in his trousers.

She responded with a deep swell of tenderness. Her body responded too—but much more slowly than his and much more slowly than normal.

She didn’t care. Her heart was full, and the emotion was even more potent than a physical response. Paul needed this, and she could give it to him.

She wanted to give it to him.

It wasn’t long before Paul adjusted, laying Emily down on her back on the couch and moving on top of her. They kept kissing and started to pull off each other's clothes, and then Paul was sinking inside her.

Emily still wasn’t very urgent, but she was aroused enough for it to be comfortable. And she loved the tightness of Paul’s body, his obvious need for her.

She held him with her arms and her legs as he moved eagerly inside her. She murmured out silly words of affection and encouragement as he thrust in hard, fast strokes and grunted in primal sounds that got louder and louder.

She wasn’t going to come. But she loved it. She loved him.

“Baby?” Paul gasped, rearing up with what was obviously the last of his control. He was sweating, and his features were twisted with effort.

“I’m good,” she told him. “Come, Paul. Come.”

He might have wanted to argue, but he didn’t have enough restraint. With a muffled groan, he began to thrust again, even faster and harder than before. She squeezed him intimately and with her arms and her legs, holding him as tightly as she could since it felt like he was on the verge of breaking.

Then he broke. He let out a hoarse roar, and his face ducked into the hollow of her neck as he jerked against her with clumsy urgency.

She loved how it felt when he let go, loved how it felt when he started to relax, when his body started to soften in her arms. She loved that he needed her as much as she needed him—even though the knowledge still sent shivers of panic through her that she had to repress.

She stroked his back. He was gasping as he pulled himself together, and it took her a minute before she realized he was gasping out, “I love you, baby. I love you.”

She wanted to cry—for so many reasons. But she didn’t. She said, “I love you too.”

***

Emily stared down at the wrinkled, faded page on which were written the fourteen items of her list.

Nine of the items were crossed off. She had only two more Shakespeare plays to read, and then she could cross off the tenth item. But that left four more remaining.

Part of her wanted to put the list away—fold it up and put it back into the nightstand drawer where she kept it. She wanted to pretend she didn’t need the list anymore, that it was no longer relevant since she was being cured by the experimental treatments.

But the weight in her gut that never really went away told her she did still need her list. She’d gotten so far already, and she didn’t want to die without completing it.

She wasn’t sure how long she had left to live.

She’d gotten another treatment and blood test that morning. Nothing had changed, according to Dr. Franklin. He was going to try something else.

It was too early to give up hope, but she just couldn’t assume she was going to live. Her life wasn’t some silly, shallow story where all troubles disappeared at the moment the couple realized they were in love.

She loved Paul. And Paul loved her.

And she might die anyway.

Her list still mattered to Emily. Paul couldn’t leave town right away because of his responsibilities at work, so three of the items couldn’t yet be accomplished.

But there was one other thing. One thing she could do on her own in Philadelphia.

Paul wasn’t going to like it.

But, since it was important to Emily, she squared her shoulders and stood up from the edge of the bed, where she’d been sitting.

Paul was in his office, of course. He always went there when he was upset. Buried himself in work so he wouldn’t have to dwell on what he couldn’t control.

Emily tapped on the office door. It was only halfway closed, and she pushed it open when Paul looked up from his computer.

He smiled at her faintly, looking too tired and too guarded. “You feel all right?”

“Yeah,” Emily said, walking into the study. She’d had a fever the day before, but she felt mostly all right today. No fever. Just endlessly aching. “I’m fine. Just looking at this.” She showed him the wrinkled list in her hand.

Paul nodded slowly, as if he understood. “Sorry we got interrupted. I think I should have a few days at the end of next week. We can go to Hawaii to climb the volcano and maybe fit in at least one of the other items.”

“Thanks,” Emily murmured, leaning against the edge of his desk next to where he was sitting in his chair. “I don’t mind doing some of them on my own. I really don’t want to get in the way of your work stuff.”

Frowning, Paul replied, “You’re not in the way of anything. I want to go with you. I can talk to Dr. Franklin and see if there’s a way to continue any treatments he comes up with while we travel.”

Emily nodded again. Then she reached over and picked up Paul’s left hand from where it was resting on the arm of his chair. She held it in both of her hands, looking down at the strong, slender fingers and the simple platinum wedding band. She stroked his palm with her thumb.

Paul cleared his throat. “Just tell me.”

She cut her eyes up to his face and swallowed. “There is one thing on my list I can do now.”

His features twisted briefly before he composed them. “Is this is your way of breaking it to me gently?”

Emily smiled and met his eyes. “I should have done it early on, but I was too scared. It would have been a lot easier for both of us if I’d done it first, though. It wouldn’t have bothered you so much back then.”

“It would have bothered me,” Paul said. “I never would have been all right with my wife stripping for other men.”

“It’s not really stripping,” she objected quickly. When he just arched his eyebrows, she hurried on, “I mean, it will be sort of like that, but I’m not going to get totally naked or anything.”

“I should think not.” His voice was low and slightly rough, and something primitive had flared up in his eyes.

Emily released a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not want you want, but I really want to do it. I want to finish my list.”

“Why the hell is stripping even on your list?”

“I know it's a little weird, but I’ve always been kind of…kind of insecure about my ability to attract men. When I was twelve…I don’t know, doing a sexy striptease on stage seemed like a symbol of my being a confident, desirable woman. A woman that men would want.”

“Of course, men want you,” Paul said in almost a growl. “Can’t you just do a dance for me?”

Despite herself, Emily almost snickered. “Nice try, but that’s not what I was envisioning when I wrote the list. I’m sorry, Paul. I really am. But I want to complete the list for real—not just give it lip-service.”

She stared down at his face worriedly. She didn’t need his permission, but she really wanted his support. It was going to be hard enough to go through with this as it was.

When she saw the resistance in his expression break slightly, she continued, “I’ve talked to Stacie about it. She knows a club that has an amateur night on Sunday evenings. She says the mood is more fun than sleazy, and she’ll help me practice the dance. I could do it this weekend and get it over with. Stacie will go with me.”

Paul straightened up in his desk chair. “I’ll be going with you too,” he said with a frown.

Relieved that he’d accepted the idea, Emily squeezed his warm hand with both of hers. “You can come if you want, of course, but I’d be more comfortable if I just went with Stacie.”

“You don’t even want me to come?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you with me. It’s just that you’ll make me more self-conscious, sitting there glowering.”

“I won’t—”

“You will too,” she interrupted with a fond smile. “I know that just the fact that I’m doing this will be hard for you. You don’t have to actually be there, Paul. I’m a big girl. I can do this on my own.”

She wasn’t sure at all how he would respond. She knew he was a possessive, territorial. She knew he was used to controlling things. He’d been working on letting go a little in his relationship with her, but he hadn’t yet let go very much. And having his wife do a striptease on stage in front of a club full of strangers would force him to let go of more control than he could easily do.

Paul stared at an empty spot in the air for a minute. Then he finally let out his breath and gave a stiff nod. “All right.”

Emily relaxed and squeezed his hand again. “Thank you. It won’t be that bad.”

“You say that now…”

She giggled and leaned down to hug him. He pulled her into his lap and held her tightly.

Burying his face in her hair, he murmured dryly, “You’re sure you don’t want to just strip for me? I promise I’ll be a very receptive audience.”

She laughed again. “If you’re very good, I’ll give you a private showing on Sunday when I get back from the club.”

She was relieved when he laughed too, low and husky.

He held her for a few minutes in silence, and she took comfort in his lean strength. She knew by the tension in his arms that he was trying to work through his instinctive need to hold onto anything that was his.

The striptease would be hard for Emily. Just the idea of it made her heart flutter nervously. But, in some ways, her doing it would be even harder for Paul.

“It’s important to me,” she said after a long while, making one more attempt to explain why she was pursuing such a silly thing when it wasn't really what either of them wanted. “The list is important.”

Paul brushed a kiss against her hair. “I know it is, baby. If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me too.”

* * *

Late on Sunday evening, Emily came home from the club, exhausted and kind of shaky. She was happy she’d managed to do the striptease, but she was really glad it was over.

And it felt like she was getting sick again.

She’d had a fever the previous day, but she‘d felt better that morning, so she spent most of the afternoon practicing her dance with Stacie.

Her dance was short and simple, since Emily wasn’t the best dancer in the world and had only limited time to practice. She and Stacie had gone shopping that morning and had decided on her outfit. Since Emily was already nervous, Stacie had suggested that she not wear something too tacky or overtly sexual - like a dominatrix or an exotic showgirl. So they’d found a prim librarian outfit with old-fashioned blouse and wrap skirt that could be easily taken off, which she’d worn with a bun, heels, and glasses. And she’d strip down to a vintage bustier, lace panties, garter-belt and stockings. It was very sexy, but wouldn’t actually reveal any more of her body than a swimsuit would.

Emily had been absolutely terrified by the time they got to the club for amateur night. If Stacie hadn’t been with her, she definitely would have chickened out. She felt a little better when she started to see some of the other acts. None of the other women were much better than she would be, and the audience seemed to enjoy them anyway.

But, when it got to her turn, she was terrified again, and Stacie practically had to push her onto the stage.

Emily had been a hit—getting a better audience response than any other of the amateurs performing. In some ways, it was gratifying. She’d known for many weeks that Paul found her sexy, but it was nice to know that strangers could too.

By the time her dance was over, though, Emily was quite sure she never wanted to do it again. Being ogled by strangers just didn’t come close to being admired by someone who loved her.

So, when she returned to the apartment afterwards, Emily was glad she had summoned the courage to do it, but she was ready to cross it off her list and be done with it.

She went to the office immediately and was surprised that Paul wasn’t there. She’d figured he would have spent the evening buried in work to distract himself from thinking about her.

She searched the apartment and finally found him in the master bathroom. He’d just gotten out of the shower, but he opened the door at her knock, a towel slung low around his hips.

“How was it?” he asked, smiling at her, his face mostly relaxed although his eyes looked a little stressed.

“It was fine,” she said, grinning back despite the fatigue that kept creeping up on her. “I did pretty well.”

“I’m sure you did.” He came out of the bathroom and went into the closet to get a pair of pajama pants.

“What have you been doing?” she asked. “I thought you’d still be working.”

“I couldn’t focus, so I worked out instead.”

The words were mild, but Emily suddenly understood what they meant. He’d probably spent the last couple of hours working out his frustrations on the weights and treadmill. He was acting perfectly calm about the whole situation, but she knew it must have been hard for him.

Paul dropped his towel and pulled on the soft, black pajama pants. Emily watched, absently admiring his lean hips, long legs, and other impressive body parts.

He studied her face after he pulled up the pants. “You don’t look like you had a very good time.”

She shrugged. “I’m really glad I did it, and I’m glad I did a good job. But I definitely don’t want to do it again.”

His lips turned up slightly. “Good. I know some men are fine with it, but I’m not sure I could handle having my wife stripping for other men regularly.”

She walked over to hug him. “Thanks for understanding, Paul,” she whispered.

He hugged her back. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t really need to.

When they finally pulled apart, Paul glanced down at her. She was still wearing the prim librarian outfit and very high heels. “Did you want to show me your dance?” he asked, a new note entering his voice.

Emily sighed. “I do, but maybe not tonight. I’m actually not feeling all that great right now.”

Paul’s expression changed. He raised a hand to feel her forehead and then her cheek. “Why don’t you just take some Tylenol and go to bed?”

She nodded. “I might take a bath first.”

Paul went to draw her a bath while she took off her sexy clothes and dumped them in a heap on the closet floor. Paul had poured the lemon and eucalyptus oil into the bath, and the familiar soothing fragrance made her feel a little better immediately.

Paul sat next to the tub while she soaked. He didn’t say much. She didn’t either. The evening had taken all the energy she had, and she could feel another fever coming on.

But she was glad Paul was beside her. At one point she reached over to take his hand, and she didn’t let it go.

He was an intensely complicated man. He was guarded and needy, controlling and generous, possessive and deeply loving, experienced at everything except being in a real relationship.

He was her husband.

When the water in her bath was starting to cool, she opened her eyes and looked over at him. He’d been gazing at her, something deep and aching in his expression.

A couple of tears streamed down her cheeks. She was feeling too sick now to stop them. “Thanks for not making this evening hard for me, Paul. I know it took a lot for you to…to be all right with me doing this.”

After a moment's hesitation, he admitted, "It shouldn't have been as hard for me as it was."

She gave a little shrug. "But it was hard, and I understand why. And it means so much that you…that you…" She couldn't figure out how to finish.

She didn't have to. Something cracked on Paul’s face for just a moment before he composed it. "It's about you, baby. It's not about me."

Emily shook her head. "It's about both of us."

He helped her out of the bath, and she dried off and pulled on some clean pajamas. Then she brushed her teeth, went to the bathroom, took some pills, and climbed into bed.

Before she lay down, though, Paul went to get a well-worn piece of paper and a pen.

Emily was able to cross one more item off her list.

***

Today was one of Emily’s “good” days, but it wasn’t very good.

They’d gone to the hospital for another one of Dr. Franklin’s treatments and another blood test that had shown the virus was still getting worse. It was progressing a little slower than before she’d started the experimental treatments, but it just wasn’t getting any better.

When Emily had felt that drop of despair in her stomach that morning and seen a matching expression on Paul’s face, she’d made a decision. She wasn’t going to get hit by this sledgehammer every other day for the last few weeks of her life. She just wasn’t. And she wasn’t going to let Paul get hit by it either.

So she’d asked Dr. Franklin not to share the results with them until there was something noteworthy to report—noteworthy meaning that she was about to die in the next few days or she was going to get better.

Paul hadn’t been happy. In fact, he had objected to this idea quite strenuously. She’d dug in her heels, however, and—since she was legally in control of who had access to her health information—Dr. Franklin had agreed to her wishes despite Paul’s vocal disapproval.

“Don’t sulk,” she said at last, tired of his silent glare from where he sat in the back of the chauffeured car beside her.

He turned his head and arched his eyebrows speakingly.

She made a face. “Don’t give me that look. You know it’s better for our mental well-being if we’re not constantly on this roller-coaster every two days.” She sighed. “Especially since the roller-coaster isn’t doing anything but plunging down.”

“Stop it,” Paul gritted out, “It’s too early to give up hope.  Dr. Franklin said there are other options he could try. There’s no reason to assume nothing is going to work.”

Emily shook her head and looked out the window. She didn’t want to argue with Paul—not when she knew how much he was hurting, how much he was torn up over being powerless to save her.

But he wasn’t going to be able to save her. She was dying. She felt worse every day. She’d been delirious with fever most of the day yesterday, and today large doses of ibuprofen were barely holding off the unbearable achiness. Even her eyes seemed to hurt.

It used to be that her fevers were pained, blurry blips, interrupting the cycle of her life. Now her life was a blurry downward spiral, interrupted by her good days like short, disconnected blips.

She glanced back over to his to find he was staring out his window as she’d been doing. Today, he wore a French blue dress shirt and black trousers, since he’d gone into the office that morning. His clothes were expensive, and he wore them with the ease and authority with which he wore everything. But he looked tired, pale, tense. His forehead under his dark hair glinted slightly, as if he were perspiring.

He was only twenty-three. Much too young to watch his wife die.

Much too young to be a widower.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I just think it would be better if we have longer between the updates. There’s nothing we can do with the information every other day except worry about it. I don’t want you to worry so much.”

His mouth twisted and he reached out to cup her cheek briefly before he dropped his hand to the seat between them. “I’m going to worry about you anyway.”

“I know. But I don’t want to give you any more ammunition. Dr. Franklin will tell us when there’s something we need to know.”

He nodded his head stiffly. He wasn’t happy. He didn’t approve. But he wasn’t going to argue.

She thought he understood.

“It’s still all right for us to leave for Hawaii on Thursday?” she asked, thinking about her list still left unfinished in her nightstand drawer.

“Yes,” he said, rubbing his face with his hand. “And we might as well stop at the Grand Canyon on the way.”

She perked up. “Really? We’ll have time?”

“We’ll have time.”

“Can we—?” She broke off her question before she completed it. The trip to the Grand Canyon and then to a volcano on Hawaii would already take more time than Paul could probably afford to give up. She couldn’t let him get on the wrong side of the board by taking even more time away from Philadelphia.

Paul frowned. “Can we what?” After a brief pause, he added, “I thought about stopping in California, so we could finish your list, but I thought that would make the trip too long.”

“It would,” she agreed readily. “You shouldn’t be away from work so long right now. Just the two stops will be perfect.”

His frown deepened. “I can take as much time as I need. I meant it would be too long for you. I thought you might not be up to it, since you haven’t been feeling well.”

Emily swallowed hard. Let out a deep breath. Admitted, “I’m not sure I’m going to feel any better. It might be a good idea to do everything we can now.”

Paul’s face tightened, and he opened his mouth. She knew he was going to object, so she spoke over him, “I’m not giving up. I promise. But I want to be prepared. I really want to finish my list—just in case.”

There was no “just in case” about it in her mind. This was the end. She only had a limited amount of time and health left to use, and she still had items on her list that needed doing. But she didn’t want to upset Paul, so she didn’t say it out loud.

He looked upset anyway. His shoulders were stiff, and he turned his face away from her, looking out the window again. After a minute, he turned back. “I want you to finish your list too. I’ll start to make arrangements to stop in California. We can do all three on the same trip.”

She smiled at him, a little shaky. “Thank you. Then all I’ll have left is finishing Shakespeare. I’ve got one more act to finish in this one, and then it’s just Hamlet left.”

Paul opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He turned away again.

Emily didn’t push. She wanted to reach over and hug him, but he was looking prickly and so she gave him some of the space she knew he needed.

None of this was fair to him. And, no matter what he said, it was her fault he was in the position of losing the woman he loved. She had to do what was best for him.

* * *

Emily wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she was still having a good time.

She’d only recovered from her last bout of fever a few hours ago—so she was drained and incredibly sore—and the bouncing of the mule didn’t help. Her head hurt a little from the bouncing, and the sun was hot on her already hot face. Plus, her thighs were pulled at an odd angle by the position of the saddle.

But she wouldn’t have traded it for the world—not the chance to see Paul Marino riding a brown mule along the Grand Canyon.

His expression was composed and unrevealing, but she knew he would have preferred to be elsewhere. He’d taken her skydiving, ice-skating, and globe-trotting without batting an eye, but the undignified mule-ride was stretching his composure.

He wore a pair of khakis and a black t-shirt, and he looked as outdoorsy as it was possible for him to look—which was not very. She was sure he’d ridden horses at some point in his past because he had no trouble keeping his seat.

But the sight of him, trying to maintain his dignity and composure on the mule, was the funniest thing Emily had seen in a long time.

He knew she was silently laughing at him, which was doing nothing to improve his disposition.

“Dare I ask why this particular endeavor was on your list when you were twelve?” he asked, noticing her slanting discreet, amused looks in his direction.

Emily giggled. “I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon. It’s something most people want to see at some point.”

“Sure. I understand wanting to see it. But why the mules?”

“Well, if you have to know, I watched a lot of reruns of old TV shows, since that’s what my dad kept on in the shop, and there was this one episode of…”

Paul groaned low in his throat and rolled his eyes. Emily burst out laughing.

They had a private guide, instead of going with one of the normal mule tours in groups of tourists. It would have been nice to be able to do the full ride, but that would require an overnight, and there was no way Emily would be well enough to last that long. She would have a fever again tomorrow, if not earlier. Three hours there and back was about all she was strong enough to handle.

It wasn’t that long ago when she’d been perfectly fit—her health never holding her back from something she’d wanted to do. There was no use in whining about it now, though. At least she was still alive. At least she was with Paul. At least she was able to ride a mule along the Grand Canyon.

The last months of her life could have been—should have been—so much worse.

They reached the overlook over the abyss, where they stopped to rest and have a snack on a blanket, looking out on the breathtaking scenery. Emily was more tired than she’d realized, and she stretched out on the ground with her head in Paul’s lap. She fell asleep without realizing it.

She was stiff and flushed when she woke up, completely disoriented and having no idea what time it was.

“It’s just been twenty minutes,” Paul said softly. He was gently stroking her hair. “You can rest more if you need to.”

“No,” she croaked, making herself sit up without groaning, even though every move seemed to hurt. “I’m fine.”

He pulled her against him until she was reclining against his chest, his arms around her, holding her almost protectively. “There’s no hurry.”

Despite the swell of emotion in her chest, her sense of humor flared up unexpectedly. “You just want to delay getting on that mule again for as long as you can.”

“Of course.”

She nestled against him, stroking his flat belly fondly. She loved how firm and lean he felt—no extra fat on his whole body. “Don’t think I didn’t see you petting your trusty Brownie before you got off. And then you snuck him a snack when you thought no one was looking.”

Paul ignored her blithely, except to say, “Brownie is a ridiculous name for a mule. I think I’ll rename him Arion.”

Emily wracked her mind for the allusion, but she just didn’t recognize it. “That sounds Greek. I suppose it’s some great mythic steed of some kind.”

Paul’s voice took on a different quality, and she knew he was quoting something famous. “…there is no man that shall catch thee by a burst of speed, neither pass thee by, nay, not though in pursuit he were driving goodly Arion, the swift horse of Adrastus, that was of heavenly stock…”

Emily giggled. Then she couldn’t stop laughing.

Paul’s arms tightened around her, and she could tell he was smiling, even though she wasn’t looking up at his face.

“Homer?” she guessed, when she’d caught her breath.

“Absolutely.”

“The Iliad?”

“Yes.”

“Poor old Brownie. Plodding through his life for years and then suddenly elevated to an immortal horse of Greek myth.”

“He’s up to the challenge.”

Emily laughed again and looked over to where Paul’s mule was munching on the leaves of a bush that happened to be directly in front of him in oblivious contentment. “I think the donkey in his family lineage might be dragging him down from Greek horse heroics.”

“I’ve got a good eye,” Paul said, his voice still dry and utterly even, despite the fact that he was obviously teasing. “He has untapped potential.”

Still laughing, Emily stretched up to kiss Paul on the lips. “I still wouldn’t suggest you trust Brownie to carry you into war with Troy.”

Paul kissed her back. “Duly noted.”

* * *

Emily was running a low-grade fever, but she had refused to stay in bed that morning. The high fever yesterday had broken, but she was feeling worse and worse on each of her “good” days. She wasn’t going to waste the brief time they were California, so she’d bluntly told Paul to stop fussing when he’d wanted to delay their plans to give her more time to recover.

“So,” Paul asked, slanting her an ironic look as the chauffeured car took them back to the airport two hours later so they could start for Hawaii as soon as possible, “Was it worth years of waiting?”

“Don’t be snide. I thought he was the most handsome man in the world back when I was twelve,” Emily said, scowling at her husband.

“I’m sure you did. And six years later you get to kiss him at last. It was a dream come true, no doubt.”

Emily stuck her tongue out at him. “I got to cross it off my list. That’s what counts. He was very nice to be willing to do it. Did you have to give him a big sob story about me to convince him to agree to kiss me?”

“I didn’t even talk to him,” Paul explained. “I talked to his manager. It was no big deal.”

He sounded nonchalant, but she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. He would have told her that convincing the former television star to give her a kiss so she could cross one of the final items off her list was no big deal, even if he’d had to wage a prolonged campaign of manipulation, bribing, and/or bullying to make it happen.

Emily sighed. “He seemed nice enough. He’s not as cute in person as he was on TV.”

“He looked about the same to me.”

Studying Paul’s face, Emily smiled, even though she was feeling weak and shaky. “Maybe my taste in men has changed since then.”

“I should certainly hope so,” he muttered.

Emily’s former heartthrob was big, buff, dark-haired, and square-jawed. Next to Paul he looked overly bulky and overblown. But no one would ever be as handsome to Emily as Paul—not anymore.

He caught her gazing at him and seemed to recognize something in her face. His expression changed. He didn’t say anything, but he reached over and took her hand. Then raised it so he could press a kiss in the palm.

“Thanks for arranging this,” Emily murmured, feeling dangerously emotional.  “You have no idea how much it means to me.”

Paul’s eyes rested on her face for a long time, and the feeling they conveyed was deep and heartbreaking.

But then he gave a half-shrug. “It was no big deal.”

* * *

Emily sat on the edge of her bed in their hotel suite in Hawaii and tried to find enough energy to reach down and put on her shoes. She’d been in bed most of the day before with a high fever, but it had lowered to just the low-grade one that she doubted would ever go away now.

Today she was going to climb the volcano. If she had enough strength to stand up.

Her whole body ached miserably, and her eyes were raw and dry. Dr. Franklin had trained Amy on administering a new round of treatment on the trip, and Amy had traveled with them to help tend Emily while she was ill.

Amy was sleeping now, since she’d stayed up most of the night until Emily’s fever had broken. Paul was working at the desk in the main room of the suite. Emily was supposed to be getting ready to go.

Instead, she was just staring down at her shoes, which she’d yet to put on.

All she had left of her list was to climb a volcano and to finish reading Shakespeare’s plays.

They were going to the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. They would drive through most of it first, so Emily could see all of it without actually hiking it. She didn’t have the strength for a very long walk, but fortunately Kilauea had a number of trails that weren’t particularly challenging and weren’t very long.

But first she had to at least manage to put on her shoes.

She just felt so bad. Like her body itself was weighing her down. She was only eighteen. She shouldn’t feel like an eighty-year-old. But she did.

She wanted to go back to bed. She wanted to cry. She wanted her father.

She was suddenly hit by a wave of grief so intense it almost strangled her. She missed her dad so much it physically hurt.

With a choked sob, she doubled over, trying to breathe, trying not to make any noise. She didn’t want Paul to hear her crying. She didn’t want to make him feel any worse.

She was supposed to climb a volcano today, and she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to do it.

She wasn’t sure she was strong enough for any of this.

She gasped and wheezed and hiccupped and tried desperately to control her tears, but she hadn’t managed to restrain them when she suddenly felt the bed shift.

She jerked up straight and wiped hurriedly at her face in a futile attempt to pretend she hadn’t just been sobbing.

Paul had sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, his face tightly controlled.

Without speaking, he slid an arm around her and pulled her against his side.

“I’m okay,” she rasped. “I was just…”

Paul pulled her against his chest, and she sobbed into his shirt. His arms around her were so tight she could barely breathe.

After a few minutes, Emily had stopped crying. She tried to pull away and finally Paul released her.

She rubbed at her wet face and looked back down at her shoes. She still needed to put them on. She took a shuddering breath, hating how weak and miserable she felt.

“We don’t have to do it today,” Paul said. “If you feel too bad, we can wait.”

She shook her head and reached down for one shoe. “I’ll feel worse tomorrow. It has to be today.”

* * *

As was expected, Paul had planned the volcano hike perfectly. He’d arranged for a private guide to take them up to the rim of the Kilauea caldera. They didn’t use one of the public trails, so they didn’t have to deal with a lot of other tourists. They were able to park in a spot that was close enough for the walk to not be too rigorous for Emily, but it was long enough to feel like she was climbing the volcano and not just stepping out of a car.

The terrain of rock and lava flows was fascinating and almost alien, but climbing the volcano was nothing like what she’d imagined at twelve-years-old. As a child, she’d assumed it would be like climbing a mountain and then looking down into a crater of hot lava. Instead, the caldera was over three miles wide. Naturally, there was no sea of lava inside. Their guide explained about cracks, fissures, and steam vents, and how the previous eruptions had shaped the landscape into what it was.

Had Emily felt better, the walk would have been incredibly enjoyable. But, as it was, even the short half-mile, combined with the sulphur fumes and hot temperature, was almost too much for her.

As they turned back to return to the car, Emily was drenched in sweat and felt so ill she could barely stand up. Waves of heat kept slamming into her, and she was having trouble taking a full breath. The low grade fever she’d had that morning seemed to have risen, and there wasn’t a single part of her body that didn’t hurt.

The guide kept looking at her dubiously, and Paul had put a supportive arm around her as she stopped to drink some water.

“You don’t have to walk back,” Paul said softly. “We can—”

“No,” she interrupted in a croaky voice. “I’m doing this. I can do it.”

Perhaps it was irrational, but if she didn’t walk the whole way then it wouldn’t feel like she’d really completed her list. She ignored the weakness of her body and forced herself to keep walking.

Paul kept a hand on her back the whole way, until the last stretch where her legs would barely hold her up. Then he held her up with one arm, supporting most of her weight as she stumbled. She knew he just wanted to pick her up and carry her. She knew it was hard for him to let her continue doing something that was obviously battering her physically.

But he didn’t object. He just held her up as she kept limping and faltering through the daze of pain and heat until they finally made it back to the air-conditioned car and Emily could breathe at last.

She was so sick and exhausted that she couldn’t sit up on the drive back to the hotel. She collapsed in the back seat with her head in Paul’s lap and hoped to drift into unconsciousness, since at least then her body wouldn’t hurt so much.

“I guess this new treatment isn’t working either,” she rasped without warning, opening her eyes after a brief, uncomfortable doze.

Paul must be in bad shape emotionally, since he couldn’t keep up his normal soothing confidence. Instead, he blurted out what he’d really been thinking. “The report they found about the virus could have just been a wild goose chase. There might not be anything worthwhile to come from it at all.”

“We don’t know that. I still think it was your dad, and he was trying to help.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“I think he would. I think he cares about you more than you think.” She gazed up at Paul’s face, blurry from the dryness of her eyes.

“I don’t know why you would feel that optimistic about humanity. The world has been nothing but brutal to you. Where did you find that kind of hope?”

She wasn’t sure if the bitter question was rhetorical or not, but she answered it anyway. “I found it in you.”

The hardness on his face shifted into confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you had every reason not to love me.” She had to force the words out over a lump in her throat. “Loving me has only hurt you. But you do anyway.”

Paul turned away with a sudden jerk of his head.

“So I’m going to keep hoping about your father,” she concluded, wishing she was strong enough to help him, to comfort him, for real.

When he didn’t turn back to meet her eyes, she added, “I’ll hope enough for both of us.”

* * *

She was barely conscious as they went up to their suite, and Paul helped her out of her clothes and into a tepid bath scented with lemon and eucalyptus oils. She vaguely tried to convince him to go rest and let Amy take care of her, but he refused. Of course.

The bath helped, as did the pills Paul made her swallow.

He helped her into clean pajamas and then gently brushed her hair and pulled it into two ponytails. She felt like a child and didn’t like the feeling. She tried to summon the strength to do some of these simple tasks on her own, but she just couldn’t.

After he helped her into bed, Paul stood staring down at her. He wore the casual clothes he’d worn for the volcano walk, and he looked handsome and masculine. And strangely helpless.

She ached for him—even more than she ached for herself.

“Do you need anything, baby?” he asked after a minute.

Emily stared up at him with glazed eyes, shifting slightly from the discomfort her body. “My list.”

Paul understood. He went to her bag and pulled out the folded list. The paper was so worn it was fragile, and he very gently unfolded it, spreading the page out on the nightstand beside the bed and handing her a pen.

She heaved herself up enough to lean over and poise the pen over the paper. Then she crossed out “Climb a volcano” with a slightly shaky line.

She gazed down at the list. Thirteen items were crossed off now. Only one remaining. She still hadn’t read all of Shakespeare’s plays.

She dropped the pen and collapsed back onto the bed, her eyes hot and swollen, her breath coming out in uneven pants.

A completed list would seem like a symbol that she could die, which was a horrible thought, but she was terrified of dying before she’d completed it.

“Almost done,” Paul murmured, picking up the list and moving it to the dresser against the opposite wall.

“I still need to read Hamlet. I haven’t even started it yet.”

“That's all right. You have plenty of time to read it still.”

Emily writhed under the covers, hot and pained and horrified by the thought of one of Shakespeare’s plays unread. “I need to get started.”

Paul’s mouth twisted slightly, but he said, “I can bring you the book, if you really want to read it now.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I don’t think I can read.”

“You can read it when you feel better.” He was trying to sound soothing, but his voice was thick with emotion he couldn’t quite suppress.

A swell of aching grief rose up, threatening to drown her. “I’m not going to feel better than this,” she gasped. “I can’t read anymore.”

For some reason, the words might have been the worst thing she’d ever said—some sort of unassailable proof that her life was really over. She shook with the grief of it, tears streaming down her hot face.

Paul was still standing over her bed, and his head suddenly jerked to the side the way it had in the car. She saw his features contort briefly, as if he were struggling to control himself.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned away from her and walked away.

She didn’t mind. She understood. There wasn’t anything he could do anyway.

She was too hot so she pushed down the covers, keeping just the sheet on top of her. Then she pulled her left hand out from under the covers and looked at the engagement ring and wedding band on her finger. She brought her hand up and kissed the rings in a foolish gesture of affection.

She dropped her hand quickly at a noise from the doorway, but she thought maybe Paul had still seen her, since he walked back into the room just then.

He was carrying his Riverside Shakespeare.

Without explanation, he pulled a chair up to the side of her bed and sat down, opening the book and flipping the pages until he’d found the place he wanted.

Emily stared at him through bleary eyes.

“The first act begins outside of Elsinore Castle in Denmark,” Paul began. “Bernardo comes to relieve Francisco, who’s on guard outside the castle. It's dark. Bernardo says, ‘Who’s there?’”

FOURTEEN

Paul jerked awake with a painful throb in his lower back.

He’d fallen asleep in the chair beside Emily’s bed, and his eyes cut immediately over to where she lay. She was pale, damp, and tossing restlessly, and Amy was bending over the bed and trying to wipe her face with a cool cloth.

Emily had been too sick for the last three days to fly back to Philadelphia, so they were still in the hotel suite in Hawaii. She’d had a fever now for over seventy-two hours, and Paul couldn’t quell a heavy weight in his gut that seemed to signal they were nearing the end.

Her fever wasn’t getting better this time because it wasn’t going to get better. Ever.

He had to force down the insistent toll of warning in his mind. If he thought about it, he wouldn’t be able to function at all.

And Emily needed him.

“She’s not any better?” he asked, his voice cracking with fatigue and emotion.

Amy shook her head. “She still seems to be getting worse.” The woman sounded strained, which was disturbing in someone as no-nonsense as the nurse. “I’m going to draw her another bath.”

Paul forced himself to his feet, although his sore back and his neck both resisted the motion. He took Amy’s place wiping Emily’s hot face as the nurse went into the bathroom to turn on the water in the tub.

Emily squirmed in evident agony, throwing off the sheet that had been covering her. She was dead white, and perspiration streamed off her skin. “Paul,” she gasped, arching up as her eyes flew open.

“I’m here, baby,” Paul murmured. He tried to sound comforting, but his voice cracked again. He felt groggy and heavy and like he couldn’t think clearly. He hadn’t slept more than a half-hour at a time in three days, not willing to leave his wife for so long.

She didn’t appear to hear him. Her eyes stared blindly up at the ceiling. “Paul, don’t! Please, no!”

Paul couldn’t tell what she was seeing, what she was imagining in her delirium, but it must have been a nightmare scenario. He only hoped he wasn’t the one hurting her in her fevered dreams.

She kept mumbling and occasionally crying for him to stop. To stop doing something.

“It’s okay, baby,” he murmured, reaching toward her with the washcloth again. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay, but there wasn’t anything else he could say.

She jerked away from his touch, her blue eyes still wide and wild. Before he could pull back his hand, her arm flung up toward him, her fingers tightened in a fist.

It connected hard with his cheekbone, just under his right eye. He grunted at the sudden impact and pain.

“Are you all right?” Amy asked, emerging from the bathroom and hurrying back over to the bed.

Paul blinked dazedly through a shock of pain. His eye watered reflexively. “I’m fine. She’s delirious again.”

Emily was writhing frantically now, her legs and arms flailing with aimless motion, and she kept crying for Paul to stop.

Amy had pulled out the thermometer and was trying to hold it against Emily’s forehead, but her head was tossing too wildly against the pillow. “Can you try to hold her still?”

Paul reached back down to the bed, his face still throbbing from where Emily had punched him, and he grabbed her shoulders tightly enough for Amy to take her temperature.

When Amy pulled back the thermometer, her face changed. “Oh God,” she muttered, staring down at the digital numbers of the tiny display.

Paul swallowed hard, a wave of cold panic overwhelming him. Amy had never been anything except calm and professional, but she looked scared now at how high Emily’s temperature had spiked. Paul couldn’t bring himself to ask how high it was.

“We need to get her into the bath,” Amy said, putting down the thermometer and looking calm again.

Together, they managed to take off Emily’s clothes, and then Paul fought through her struggling until he was able to gather her up in his arms. She landed one more punch—this time to the side of his jaw, but he barely felt the pain.

The pain in his chest was much, much worse.

“Paul, no! No, no!” Emily screamed hoarsely, her voice loud and piercing in his ear as he carried her.

He managed to lower her into the tub without hurting her, although she was writhing and flailing so frantically that the bathroom floor was soon covered with water. The cool water seemed to soothe her a little, and her screaming soon subdued to mumbled pleas.

Paul knelt down beside the tub, his trousers and t-shirt soaked through with water. Every part of his body ached, but none as painfully as his chest. He took a clean washcloth, dampened it with cold water and wiped at Emily’s face as she squirmed and choked out incoherent words.

Emily tossed her head a few times, and then her wide eyes landed on Paul. For just a moment, she appeared to see him. “Paul, help!”

Paul closed his eyes briefly, swallowing hard over the tightness in his throat that just wouldn’t go away. “I’m trying. I promise I’m trying.”

Amy took Emily’s temperature again. After checking it, she left the bathroom without explanation.

Paul was too distracted to even wonder what the nurse was doing.

“Please help!” Emily gasped again, arching up in the tub. “Paul, please!”

He wiped at her face with the cool cloth. “I don’t know what else to do, baby,” he choked, his throat almost too tight to even speak.

For a moment, he was swallowed up by the helplessness. His wife was dying. She was dying in front of his eyes, and there was nothing in the world he could do to stop it.

Amy returned to the bathroom then with a bucket of ice in her hands. Paul watched blankly as the woman dumped it into the tub.

Evidently reading his look correctly, Amy explained, “We need to bring her fever down.”

“I thought ice baths weren’t good for fevers.”

“In general, they aren’t, but her fever can’t stay this high for long or it might…damage her brain. We need to bring it down quickly.”

Paul froze.

Amy’s expression was still composed, but there was a brief flash of pity in her eyes. “Keep cooling her down. I’ll get more ice.”

Paul fought through the bleak despair until he could move again. He swished the ice around in the bathwater and then cooled down the washcloth again with the freezing water.

The drop in temperature seemed to have an effect. Emily stopped writhing and let out a long sigh. “Paul,” she breathed.

With a painful gulp, Paul kept cooling her down. When Amy came in with more ice, he said, “It seems to be helping.”

Amy checked Emily's temperature again and looked relieved at the result. They kept her in the bath until she started to shiver, and then Paul gathered her small, wet body up into his arms again. She seemed to weigh nothing at all, which was terrifying and heartbreaking. It felt like she was slipping out of his grip for good.

When they dried her off and got her into bed, she drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Paul’s chest could finally unclench, at least for the moment.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Amy suggested. “You’ve been awake for days.”

Paul shook his head. “I’m not going to leave her, but you need to rest too. I can sit with her while you get some sleep.”

Amy started to object, but Paul insisted, “I mean it. I’m not expecting you to work around the clock.” He should have hired another nurse to relieve Amy, but he wasn’t willing to risk his precious wife with a stranger. Not at this point. A doctor stopped by twice a day, and they kept in regular contact with Dr. Franklin. He’d had another treatment he wanted to try, so the local doctor administered that yesterday and then again this morning.

The new treatment obviously wasn’t working any better than the other ones had.

“All right,” Amy relented. “If you’ll take a shower, change clothes, and get something to eat first, I’ll rest for a couple of hours.”

It was a reasonable compromise, and Paul agreed. It was ridiculously hard for him to even leave the room, though. He showered quickly, put on clean clothes, and then swallowed down a sandwich and soup that room service had brought up. He barely tasted it, but he finished it quickly so he could get back to Emily.

When he returned to the bedroom, he saw that she was still sleeping peacefully. Her fever hadn’t broken, but at least it had lowered enough for her to sleep. Amy went to her room to rest, saying she wouldn’t be more than a couple of hours, and he should wake her if anything changed.

Paul sank into the chair where he’d spent most of the last three days.

“Paul,” Emily gasped, her eyes opening without warning after several minutes of silence.

“I’m here,” he said, leaning over to cool down her face. Her hair was still wet from the bath, and it clung to her hot skin.

Emily turned to look at him, and it was clear she knew who he was now. She smiled at him weakly. “Hi.”

He smiled back, almost choking on a surge of emotion. “Hi.”

“You should get some sleep.” She shifted beneath the covers and pulled her arms out from beneath the sheets to rest them on top instead.

“I’m fine,” Paul lied. “This chair is comfortable.”

Emily snorted, but her expression changed when she looked at his face again. “What happened to you?”

Paul frowned, confused and worried by her flare of anxiety. “What do you mean?”

“You…you’re…beat up.”

He remembered that she’d punched him twice earlier. He’d barely noticed, but his face must be starting to bruise from the blows. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“I did that,” she said, licking her dry lips.

Paul reached for the bottle of water beside the bedside and helped her take a few sips. When her eyes still studied him anxiously, he quirked his mouth. “I’m sure I deserved it. Don’t worry about it, baby.”

She fumbled for his hand until he offered it to her. She brought it up to her lips and kissed the palm.

The fond little gesture was almost too much for Paul. He looked away and breathed shakily.

She gave him a moment to recover, but, when he looked back at her again, she asked, “Do you feel up to reading more Hamlet? We just have the last act to go.”

“Of course,” Paul agreed immediately, standing up to get the book from the top of the desk in the room. He'd been reading to her from it in her lucid moments for the last three days.

He didn’t actually feel up to reading. His mind was so blurred with fatigue and emotional strain that he could barely focus on the words, and his voice rasped painfully as he spoke.

He would deny Emily nothing that was in his power to give her, however, and this was one of the few things he could.

So he began to read Act Five out loud, and he continued to read, even when Emily started to shift restlessly in the bed with discomfort. He paused a few times to cool her down a little and give her more medication, but otherwise he read straight through.

He tried not to think much about what he was reading, particularly when characters started to die. The reflections on death at the end were almost too much, and he could barely get through Hamlet’s dying speech.

Tears were streaming down Emily’s face when he finished the final lines of the play, with Fortinbras's instructions for Hamlet's body to be carried away in honor.

He had to look away again for a moment, but then he managed to ask, somewhat casually, “So what did you think?”

She was pale and incredibly weak, and obviously in a lot of pain, but she smiled at him through her tears. “I loved it. It was the right one to…to end with.” Her face twisted with another surge of grief.

Paul couldn’t stand. He just couldn’t stand it. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to escape. It hurt too much. He couldn’t remember anything hurting more.

He couldn’t leave her, but he couldn’t answer. So he distracted himself by checking her temperature and wiping her face again. Her fever was still high—almost 103⁰—but not nearly as high as it had been earlier.

Emily didn’t say anything. She just gazed up at his face with an expression that looked like understanding.

When he was able to speak, he said, “Don’t talk that way. This isn’t the end.”

But it was the end. He knew it. She knew it.

It just was.

Emily smiled at him but didn’t argue or respond.

She moved around in the bed, evidently trying to find a cooler spot. “What a work is man…what was it?”

Paul knew exactly what the garbled question meant. “‘What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable!’”

She nodded as he quoted the lines from Hamlet. “How old was he when he wrote this play?”

“I don’t know. Mid-thirties or something, I’d guess.”

“Imagine doing so much before you were forty. Writing something so true and beautiful and…and good. Something that lasted so long. All I’ve done is my list.”

“You’ve done a lot more than that, baby.”

Tears streamed out of her eyes as she nodded in acknowledgement.

On the verge of total collapse, Paul focused enough to pull the list out of the nightstand drawer and unfold it. Only one item remained. He knew what she would need without her having to ask, so he found a pen.

She was too weak to hold the pen, so he positioned it in her hand and guided it as together they crossed through the last item on the list.

They both stared down at the worn paper—fourteen items, now all crossed off.

The fulfillment of twelve-year-old Emily’s dreams for her life.

The pen dropped out of her hand, and she closed her eyes with a smile. “I love you, Paul. Thank you so much for helping me do all this.”

“You’re welcome, baby. I love you too.”

After a brief pause, she added, “I can’t believe you had those lines memorized.  You really are kind of a geek, you know.”

The amusement surprised him into a choked laugh. “Just don’t tell anyone else.”

She didn’t reply. Paul stared down at her, and the amusement disappeared in an instant. Something dark and heavy and awful started to rise up in his chest.

Her body had relaxed. Her eyes remained closed. Her skin and lips were as pale as the white sheets beneath her. She looked satisfied, at peace.

Finished.

“Emily,” he rasped, pushing the pen and list out of the way and grabbing her hand. “Emily, don’t you dare give up!” His voice was rough, insistent, absolutely desperate.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t react. She let out another long breath, and her body seemed to grow limper. It was as if she were letting go—of everything.

Panic swallowed him up, and he fell on his knees beside the bed, clinging to her hand.  “Emily, baby, please don’t leave me. I mean it.”

She didn’t even seem to hear him. Maybe she had just fallen asleep in absolute exhaustion, but something had changed about her body, about her face. Paul was terrified she wouldn’t wake up again.

He fumbled for her pulse, and it took a minute before he could feel that her heart was still beating faintly.

“Emily, please.”

She didn’t respond in any way. And he knew—he knew—she was leaving him.

The room, the whole suite, was silent and empty around him. The future—alone, without Emily—rose up before him like a dark, gaping maw. He couldn’t take it. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand the thought of all those endless days of living without her. He gripped her pale, little hand with both of his and clung to it desperately. He might have been hurting her, but he couldn’t seem to let it go.

She didn’t react. She didn’t open her eyes.

She’d always been tough, unrelenting. Years ago, she’d lectured him for cutting in line in her dad’s store. Several months ago, she’d agreed to testify against a powerful mob boss, when no one else was brave enough to do so. She’d fought every battle in her short life without flinching.

There were some fights you just couldn’t win.

He buckled under the weight of his grief and buried his face in the bedsheet beside her. His shoulders shook helplessly for a minute, and he strangled on emotion he just couldn’t force down.

His face was damp when he finally raised it, and he stared down at Emily in a blurry, throbbing haze.

She was dying.

With a rough sound in his throat, he heaved himself up and got into the bed beside her. He wanted to pull her into his arms, but he didn’t dare let his body heat raise her temperature.

So he lay beside her, clinging only to her hand. Her left hand, on which she still wore his rings.

Only a few months ago, she'd approached him with a ludicrous proposal, and he’d accepted it because he had pitied her, having no idea that he would love her, that he’d be remade and then broken by it.

He lay beside her and closed his eyes, listening to her faint breathing as it became slower and slower.

Hamlet had believed that a divinity shaped the ends of human lives. His mother had believed it too. It had been over ten years since Paul had believed in any such thing, but he prayed now anyway—instinctively, in final desperation, to whatever or whoever had any sort of power in this bitterly unknowable universe.

He needed Emily to live, and he had no power to make her live.

She was leaving him breath by breath.

* * *

Paul woke up with a jerk, his aching body jarred painfully.

He must have fallen into an exhausted sleep on the bed beside Emily. He had no idea how long it had been. He had no idea what day it was, what time it was, what room this was.

He lifted his head and stared down at her pale face.

Then he pressed his palm against her forehead, her cheek.

She was cool.

Terror seizing him, he fumbled for the pulse in her neck, and he let his breath out with a whoosh when he felt her steady pulse. Then he saw her chest rise and fall slowly with her breathing.

She was asleep. Her fever must have finally broken.

She hadn’t left him yet.

***

Paul felt like he was drugged, like he couldn’t even open his eyes.

He fought through the dark fog of sleep until he was able to blink in the dim light of the room. He was in his own bed in their Philadelphia apartment, where he’d collapsed in absolute exhaustion after they’d arrived home late the previous night.

He’d slept like the dead for several hours, and now he was waking up alone in the big bed.

Last night, Emily had insisted that she sleep in her own room so he could get some rest too. She’d been so weak after her prolonged fever and the long flight that he hadn’t had the heart to argue with her, no matter how much he would prefer to be close to her.

If she’d slept with him, he would have kept waking up throughout the night to check on her.

A glance at the bedside clock told him it was already eight in the morning. He couldn’t believe he’d slept so late. He jumped out of bed and hurried down the hall to Emily’s room.

The door was partway open, so he pushed in. He let out his breath when he saw Emily sleeping peacefully in the darkened room. When they’d landed last night, he’d sent Amy home to rest, and Lola, their regular night nurse, had sat with Emily through the night.

When she saw him, Lola got up from her chair and walked over to where he was standing. “She’s been sleeping fine,” she said softly. “No fever yet.”

Paul nodded, his eyes devouring the outline of her Emily’s body under the covers. He wanted to touch her, to check on her, but he was afraid of waking her up. “Thanks,” he murmured. “She can sleep another hour.”

He’d made an appointment for them to meet with Dr. Franklin at ten that morning. He was prepared to use any means necessary to ensure that they pursue more aggressive treatments against the virus. Clearly, the initial experimental treatments weren’t working, and they only had a very small window of time to do anything at all. It wouldn’t be long before Emily’s fever returned, and Paul was almost certain that the next fever would kill her.

He went to shower and dress, and then he took his coffee and a protein bar to his study to get through some email. He was woefully behind on his work at Simone’s, which was not a good way to prove himself worthy of the added responsibilities they’d given him.

He couldn’t bring himself to care, though. It was almost impossible to think of anything but Emily.

He exerted all the force of his will and was able to focus enough to work through a lot of his email quickly and efficiently. He was actually surprised by how much he’d done when there was a tap on the office door, and he checked his watch to see it was almost nine o’clock.

He turned and smiled at Ruth when she came into the study with a pot of coffee to refill his mug.

“It’s good to have you home, Mr. Marino,” she said with an answering smile as she poured the coffee.

“Thanks. I’m glad to be home.”

He meant it. The familiar surroundings were deeply reassuring. He didn’t let himself think about how sterile and empty they would be without Emily.

“How is Mrs. Marino?” Ruth asked. “She seems to have slept good.”

“I think she did. She needed it. She’s had a hard week.” He sighed and took a sip of coffee. “She’s been really sick.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind, sir, but I’ve been praying. I think she’s looking a little better.”

He didn’t argue, but he knew that was only wishful thinking on Ruth’s part. Emily had lost more than five pounds in just one week, and she was still as white as a ghost. She didn’t look better. She looked worse.

He tried to smile in response, but he couldn’t manage any words.

Ruth’s face softened. “Don’t give up, Mr. Marino,” she murmured. “Not yet.” Then, as if she was afraid she’d overstepped her boundaries, she turned around and hurried out of the room.

Paul swallowed and turned back toward his computer. He breathed, tried to clear his mind again so he could work for a few more minutes.

Before he’d succeeded in focusing again, he heard another knock on the door. When he turned toward it, he was surprised to see Jonathon Marks, the head of the security firm he used, standing in the doorway of the office wearing a tailored suit, with a newspaper folded under one arm.

Marks was eminently professional and discreet. He stopped by occasionally to inspect his security team, but he never bothered Paul for anything less than an emergency. “Good morning, Mr. Marino,” he said with a polite smile.

“Good morning.”

Never one to waste time on small talk, Marks got down to business. “Have you seen this yet?” he asked, unfolding the newspaper as he approached the desk.

Paul shook his head. He hadn’t read a newspaper, watched the news, or checked any news sites for at least four days. The world might have gone to war, and he wouldn’t know about it.

“I’m sorry,” Marks said soberly, laying that morning’s edition of a local paper out in front of Paul and pointing out a picture on the front page beneath the fold. “I don’t know how they were able to get the shot. The area should have been secure.”

Paul focused on the image, and his chest tightened as he saw a picture of himself, carrying Emily to the car after their plane landed the night before. Emily looked limp in his arms, and Paul’s broken expression was more revealing than anything he would willingly have shown to the world. The caption beneath the picture called him “young” and “devoted” and talked about him spending his last days with his “brave, dying bride.”

“Who has this?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

“Everyone. I’m sorry, sir.” It was Marks’s second apology in less than two minutes—a record for the competent man.

Paul cleared his throat. Marks and the team had done an excellent job over the last months in keeping the press at bay. Paul knew better than to think it was possible to close them out completely—not when the trial and his marriage had made him such a tempting target.

Besides, he had more important things to be concerned about right now than having his privacy invaded.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It happens.”

Marks blinked. “Thank you, sir. We’re working on—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul interrupted.

Marks's face grew still for a moment. Then he said again, “Thank you, sir. May I ask about how Mrs. Marino is doing?”

Paul’s jaw tightened reflexively. “Not well.”

“Please tell her that we’re all thinking about her.”

Paul swallowed again as the other man left his study. He had never realized that people cared about him—at all—until Emily came along.

He let out a long breath and gave up on his email. He needed to get Emily up anyway if they were going to be at Dr. Franklin’s office by ten. So he forced himself to his feet and went to wake up his sick, exhausted wife.

* * *

Paul leaned his head back against the cushy leather sofa in Dr. Franklin’s office and closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t remember ever being so tired in his life. In a way, it was a relief. He was so tired even the pain was somehow muffled.

Emily was sprawled out on the sofa with her head in his lap. He stroked her hair gently, but he thought from her breathing that she’d already fallen back to sleep.

He’d had a hard time getting her up. She’d been so listless and lethargic that he and Lola had practically had to dress her. He’d called and asked Dr. Franklin if the doctor could come to the apartment instead. Dr. Franklin had been willing, but he’d suggested they come to the hospital as originally planned since he wanted to do some tests to see how the virus was progressing, and they’d be able to get results more quickly that way.

So Paul had carried Emily to the car, and she’d fallen asleep on the ride over. She’d been barely conscious as Dr. Franklin examined her, took blood, and asked them questions, and she’d fallen asleep as soon as he’d left the office. He had returned again after a while and had taken more blood and performed a few new tests.

Under normal circumstances, Paul would have demanded to know what was going on, but Dr. Franklin and the nurse had both looked sober and concerned, and Paul just couldn’t bring himself to hurry along any more bad news.

So he and Emily were waiting alone in the office, while the medical team examined the test results and determined the best course of action.

If Dr. Franklin returned in a few minutes and told Paul there was nothing else they could do—that they would just have to wait for the end—Paul would have no choice but to punch him in the face.

He was getting more and more concerned about Emily. She didn’t have a fever. Her head was warm in his lap, but her skin wasn’t unusually hot. He didn’t understand why she couldn’t stay awake.

As he was stroking her loose hair, his fingers accidentally got caught in a tangle, and he pulled on it before he realized what he was doing.

Emily jerked and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” he murmured, gently untangling his fingers.

“S’okay,” Emily mumbled, evidently trying to pry her eyes open. “What’s going on?”

“We’re still waiting for Dr. Franklin to come back and tell us what treatment we’re going to try next.”

“Oh.” Emily groaned as she made herself sit up. She sat very still for a moment and breathed, as if she felt dizzy, but then she twined her arms around his neck. “I’m not sure I’m up to any sort of major treatment. I don’t seem to have any strength left at all.”

“You won’t have to do the work on whatever treatment he tries. You’ll do fine.” Paul wrapped his arms around her and pulled her gently into his lap so he could hold her. He tried to sound encouraging, but his stomach dropped like a rock. It sounded so much like she was giving up.

He tightened his arms instinctively and tightened them even harder when he felt her begin to shake.

“I can’t stand to leave you alone, Paul.” Her face was pressed against his shoulder. "But I'm so, so tired."

“You haven’t left me,” he said thickly. “You haven’t left me yet.”

“I know, but it won’t be long. I’m trying to hold on for you, and I’ll try new treatments for you, but I’m just so tired.”

She sounded more than tired. She sounded battered. He wanted to beg her to stay with him, the way he had in Hawaii. There were limits, after all, to how far he could go, how much he could give.

Even if it might mean prolonging her pain, he just didn’t want her to die.

Since he knew that wasn’t what he was supposed to say, he forced out, “I want you to do what’s best for you. Don’t do anything for me. Think about you. Not me.”

She lifted her head and pressed a little kiss on the side of his mouth. “Silly. You know better than that. That’s not how love works. I’ll always think about you.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just thought about what she said. Then his arms tightened around her again as he suddenly realized there were no limits after all to how much he could love, how much he could give, how much he would suffer to keep her from suffering.

“Don’t do the treatments for me,” he said hoarsely, this time meaning it. “I don’t want you to keep going just for me.”

Her face twisted and she would have responded, but Paul would never know what she was going to say. Dr. Franklin came back into the office.

The man looked a little uncomfortable at having interrupted what appeared to be an intimate moment, but Paul released his desperate grip on Emily and rearranged her beside him on the couch.

The doctor took the chair facing them.

When he didn’t speak immediately, Paul got impatient. “Tell us.”

“The results are not at all what we expected. That’s why we came to do the other tests. But the results were the same both times.”

Paul frowned. “What’s so surprising about them?”

“There’s been dramatic improvement.”

“What?’ Paul demanded, every muscle in his body freezing in a clench.

Dr. Franklin held out his hands and smiled vaguely. “This latest treatment we tried must be working. The improvement is…dramatic.”

Paul stared, breathless and disoriented. His mind couldn’t even process the significance of what was said.

“I’m going to call in for consultation from a couple of other doctors. I don’t want to draw conclusions too soon. We’ll continue this latest treatment, of course, and wait to see what happens, but these are better results than anyone anticipated.”

Paul just kept staring. Couldn’t seem to breathe.

“I don’t understand,” Emily mumbled, leaning against his side. When he looked down, her face was groggy and confused. She still barely looked awake.

Clearing his throat, Paul said, “He says the virus is getting better. That maybe you’re on your way to being cured.” Even saying the words didn’t make them feel real. It was too much—too much to even begin to wrap his mind around.

And he just couldn’t let himself believe it was true.

Emily blinked up at him, looking as dazed and doubtful as he was. “But I still feel like hell.”

Dr. Franklin said, “It could simply be the aftermath of having such a high fever for so long. Give it a few days, and we’ll see what happens. You may get another fever, but I wouldn’t expect it to be as bad—given what seems to be happening with the virus. If the improvement continues, then you should be feeling a lot better soon. There are no guarantees, of course, since this virus is such a mystery to us, but I would definitely say that there’s now more than a thin sliver of hope. We can think positively.”

They talked for a few more minutes and arranged for another appointment. Paul’s mind was fuzzy and disoriented, and Emily appeared completely out of it.

They were silent as they left the building and got into the back of the chauffeured car. They stared at each other for a few long minutes.

Finally, Emily said, “I’m too afraid to hope.”

“Me too,” Paul said, trying futilely to make his mind work with its normal quick, sharp efficiency. “Let’s just wait and see what happens in the next few days.”

“I’m not dreaming or delirious, am I?

“Not unless I am too.”

“Oh. Good.”

* * *

When they returned to the apartment, Paul intended to work for the rest of the day until he’d caught up, but, as he helped Emily into bed, she pulled him into bed with her.

He intended to just hold her for a few minutes until she fell asleep, but he ended up falling asleep too.

As he woke up, he immediately realized something was different.

He was incredibly uncomfortable, one of his arms asleep, his neck stiff from its awkward position, and his eyes throbbing from too much emotion and fatigue. And he was hard, his erection pressed against Emily’s soft, sleeping body—another kind of discomfort and one that wasn’t likely to be satisfied any time soon.

Something had changed, though. It took a few minutes for his fuzzy mind to process what the change was.

For the first time in weeks, he’d woken up without the weight of impending doom in his gut.

For the first time in so long, he woke up feeling genuine hope.

***

Paul’s gut clenched when he glanced at the caller ID of his ringing phone. He snatched it up. “Marino,” he said curtly, his heart starting to race in his chest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Marino,” Dr. Franklin said on the other end of the call. “How is Mrs. Marino feeling today?”

“She’s fine. Still tired.  Is everything all right with her tests?”

“It’s still good. There’s almost no sign of the virus now at all.”

Paul let out the breath he’d been holding. Dr. Franklin had called him every afternoon for three weeks to report on the blood sent over by the nurse in the mornings, but Paul got anxious every time, still unable to fully believe that Emily’s virus was gone for good. “Excellent,” he said, since Dr. Franklin was waiting for him to say something.

“We’re going to keep close watch on her,” Dr. Franklin said, sounding relaxed and pleased. “But at this point I think we can be optimistic. Although the virus is so new we’ll never have any guarantees, all signs are pointing toward the idea that it is gone for good. I think you and Mrs. Marino can start acting as though she's not going to die from it.”

Paul swallowed. “She’s still not feeling up to par.”

“That’s to be expected. The fevers took a lot out of her physically, particularly the final ones that were so high for so long. But there’s no permanent damage, and she’s slowly regaining her strength. In another couple of weeks, she’ll be feeling like herself again.”

They talked for a couple more minutes before Paul hung up. Then he sat and stared at his computer screen, trying to make himself feel happy.

He was happy. Of course he was. He’d wanted nothing more in the world than for Emily to live, but his relief was so deep and the miracle so unexpected that he was having more trouble processing it than he’d expected.

He still expected it to be snatched away at any minute.

And he still wasn’t sure what the future held for him and Emily.

He cleared his throat and made himself stand up. He’d been working in his office since early morning, and his stiff muscles protested the move as he walked down the hall toward Emily’s bedroom.

According to Ruth, who’d brought in Paul’s lunch an hour or so ago, Emily had gotten tired and gone to take a nap.

She was gradually gaining strength, but she still tired easily. However, that didn’t worry him as much as the way she’d been so quiet for the last couple of weeks. Paul kept telling himself it was natural. She’d been sure she was going to die, and the transition would take a while to sink in. She had her whole life to live now when she hadn’t expected it.

But, despite his attempts at rational thinking, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was pulling back from him.

She loved him. He believed that. But she’d fallen in love with him when they’d been living in a fragile, intense bubble of crisis. Now that the bubble had burst, he might not be what she wanted or needed for the long, normal years of her life.

He kept brooding on it, and every time Emily acted distant or seemed distracted, he brooded about it even more.

But she liked to know immediately when Dr. Franklin called with her results, so he tapped on her bedroom door and pushed it open.

Emily had been lying on her stomach with her face away from the door, but she rolled over kind of clumsily when he entered.  She was flushed from her nap and looked a little annoyed with him, maybe for waking her up.

“Sorry,” he said, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “Dr. Franklin called. Everything is still fine.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.” She blinked at him and scooted up so she was leaning against her pillows, pulling her arms out from under the cashmere throw draped on top of her.

Paul’s brow lowered as he studied her. Her cheeks were red, and she looked like she might be hot. Her breath was a little shallow, and she seemed to be having a hard time focusing.

Maybe it was because he’d woken her up, but he reached over to feel her forehead just the same.

She jerked away from his touch, frowning at him grouchily. “I don’t have a fever. Stop doing that. Dr. Franklin just told you the virus is still gone.”

Paul frowned back at her, dropping his hand. She didn’t normally snap at him for no reason. He wondered if she was stressed about how to tell him her feelings were changing.

“Sorry,” she said after a moment. “Didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

He shook his head and smiled, moving over to lean back against the pillows beside her. “Don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have woken you up from a nap.”

“I wasn—” She cut off her words abruptly and dropped her eyes.

Paul studied her, deeply confused and worried again. He tried to work up the courage to ask her directly, to let her know she wasn’t obligated to stay with him, to tell her she could leave if she wanted.

But the words stuck in his throat. The truth was he wasn’t sure he was capable of letting her leave.

“I’ve been thinking,” Emily said into the silence, her voice wobbling slightly like she was nervous.

Paul froze, and it took all his control to keep his voice casual as he asked, “About what?”

“About…about us.”

Something started to shake inside him as he realized it was happening—everything he’d secretly feared was, at this moment, beginning to play out. He opened his mouth to reply but couldn’t. He literally couldn’t say anything.

Emily didn’t seem to need him to. She was staring down at her twisting hands as she continued haltingly, “When we got married it was because I was going to die. And when we…when we fell in love it was when I was going to die. So…so…I just wanted to say…I know that, if I don’t die, it might change things.”

She sounded pained and almost heart-broken, as if she knew how much this would crush him. But she was making herself say it anyway, so Paul made himself listen. It felt like he’d gone dead white.

“So I just wanted to say I understand if it does. I mean, if your feelings change. I mean, I know we weren’t supposed to be married for the rest of your life. So if you…if you decide…” She made a little sound like a sob and raised a hand to cover her mouth.

Paul was so primed for agonizing pain that it took a minute to orient himself to what Emily was actually saying. Then it took a moment to process it, to recognize the significance.

“What?” he gasped, when he finally caught up. “What?”

Emily finally looked up from her clenched hands and stared at him with despairing blue eyes. “I just mean that I never really expected you to love me the way I love you. And it’s okay.”

“You think I don’t love you?” He was too flabbergasted to recognize the hope that had clenched in his chest.

“No, no. I know you love me. I wasn’t doubting that. But I know it was…it was…I know things might change if I live. And it’s okay.”

“Why would you think I don’t love you?” Paul asked breathlessly. He reached over and grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. “How could you possibly think that?”

Emily looked shocked and just as breathless as he was and then just a little awed. “I…I don’t know. I just thought, if you really wanted to be married to me for decades and decades, you’d be…you’d be…”

“I’d be what?”

“You’d be more happy.” She dropped her eyes, her voice cracking as she continued, “That I wasn’t going to die.”

He swallowed so hard it physically hurt. “You don’t think I’m happy?”

She lifted her eyes to meet his. “Are you?”

“Oh, baby, your living is the best thing that will ever happen to me, but it’s so good I still can’t really believe it. Things never work out miraculously for me. They just don’t. So I kept thinking that—if you’re really well—then you’re not going to want to stay with me.”

She stared at him, her eyes enormous in her flushed face. “Why wouldn’t I want to stay with you? I love you more than anything. But you were starting to act kind of standoffish. And you've been working all the time these last three weeks. And you didn’t seem to want to have sex with me anymore, so I thought…” She trailed off, something joyful awakening in her eyes. “So you still love me and want me to be your wife?”

“Of course!” The two words were embarrassingly thick, but he was too relieved and elated to care. He pulled her into a hug so fierce he might have hurt her. “Of course, baby. I’m never going to let you go.”

Emily shook against him, in his arms, and he finally allowed something like joy to wash over him completely. Maybe it was true.

She was going to live, and he was allowed to love her for the rest of his life.

After a few minutes, Emily finally pulled away. Her face was a little damp, but it was beaming. “Okay,” she said, a little sheepishly. “That’s good then. I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

Paul couldn’t help but laugh. “Now, why the hell would you think I didn’t want to have sex with you?”

“Well, you haven’t tried. Not for ages.” She glared at him.  “You haven’t made a single move.”

“I thought you were still recovering. I didn’t know you were up to it yet.”

“Of course, I’m up to it. I’ve—” She cut the words off unexpectedly, cutting her eyes down and looking strangely embarrassed.

Paul grew suddenly still as his mind started to put pieces together. After a moment, he asked in a low voice, “What were you doing when I came in here just now?”

“Nothing!” Emily burst out, her face blazing red. “I was doing nothing!”

Suddenly, more pieces started to fit themselves together in his mind in a crystal-clear revelation, filling him with gratified hilarity and awe. This wasn’t the first time he’d barged in on her in a room, catching her looking flushed, breathless, and grouchy. “Back in Egypt,” he breathed, “when I—”

Emily practically tackled him, trying to cover his mouth with her hand. “I was doing nothing then too. Nothing!”

“I had no idea,” he gasped, half-laughing and half-struggling against her weight and the clasp of her hand on his mouth. Her body was soft and wriggling, and she was practically lying on top of him now. All of it was giving him some very particular ideas. His body tightened in anticipation.

She managed to muffle his words with her palm, and she glared down at him hotly. “I was doing nothing. Both times. And, even if I was, it was all your fault.”

Paul’s heart felt like it was overflowing—with love, with amusement, with understanding, and with the warmest kind of hope he could remember. He tried to talk, but he couldn’t through her hand. So he gently reached up to pull away her wrist. “Of course, you were doing nothing,” he said, his voice thick with many things. “But, now that I know, maybe we can do nothing together.”

She tried to sustain her fierce frown, but her lips kept trembling into a suppressed smile. “I guess that would be all right,” she said, feigning disdain.

With a laugh, Paul adjusted his legs and used them to lever himself up and flip both of them over, so he was lying on top of her, his lower body settling between her legs. She was flushed and shaking and clinging to him, and her face was filled with humor and intelligence and excitement and something he couldn’t fail to see was love. “Oh baby,” he murmured. “I love you so much.”

She reached up to cup his face with one of her hands. “’Til death do us part?” she whispered.

She was everything he'd ever wanted, and she was his. Paul said, “’Til death do us part.”

They gazed at each other for a minute. Then he finally prompted, “So did you want to have sex?”

“Yes, please.” She smiled as they started to fumble with each other’s clothes, muttering when she couldn’t get his shirt unbuttoned quickly enough and giggling when her pants got twisted up around her ankles.

When Paul’s watchband got snagged on a strand of Emily’s hair, he frowned as he carefully untangled it. “We seem to be a little out of practice at this,” he grumbled, although he felt warm and aroused and as close to anyone as he’d ever felt in his entire life.

“Well, it’s been a while,” she replied, although she was shaking with laughter. “Don’t blame yourself. You’ll get the hang of it again soon.”

When she beamed up at him, teasing and fond, a new wave of affection washed over him. Laying his watch aside, he took Emily’s face in his hands and leaned down into another kiss.

Their naked bodies moved together as the kiss deepened, and both his heart and his body reacted to the eager pliancy with which she responded to his embrace.

For a long time, they drank each other in, caressing and gasping with increasing urgency as their skin rubbed against the covers and each other. When Paul felt Emily pushing gently against his shoulder, he willingly allowed her to roll them both over, letting her drape herself on top of him.

Her soft breasts pressed into his bare chest, and her hair spilled all around him as she trailed kisses along his face, jaw and neck. He loved her sweet attentions, loved the way her hands fluttered greedily on his shoulders and then down his sides to his waist.

He palmed the curve of her butt, pushing her down into his pelvis. She felt as good as anything ever had, but he wouldn’t be able to take much more of her foreplay before the pulsing in his arousal forced him into action.

When her wanton wiggling on top of him caused his erection to get squeezed between their bodies and she started to grind herself against it, Paul tensed and couldn’t hold back an animalistic grunt. “Damn, Emily, please say you’re ready for me.”

She laughed huskily against his lips. “God, yes, I’m so ready.”

Paul exhaled in relief as Emily raised herself up and took him in both of her hands. She stroked him a few times, making him gasp and shift beneath her. Then she lifted her hips and carefully, with a few adjustments, sheathed him in a tight clasp.

They both groaned at the penetration, and then Emily leaned forward to claim a deep, sloppy kiss.

He couldn’t keep his hips from rocking up into her, needing the motion, needing the friction, needing her to match his deepest rhythm.

“So good, Paul,” she whispered, still pressed against him fully. “You always feel so good.”

Paul was so focused on trying to restrain his urge to thrust that he could only make a wordless, guttural noise.

Then Emily took his earlobe between her lips. Sucked it a few times. Every time he felt the wet tug from her mouth, his pelvis bucked up involuntarily.

Letting his earlobe slip out, Emily murmured huskily into his ear, “Let go, Paul. Let go.”

He released a long moan—like some kind of primitive creature—and he held her hips snugly against his as he levered them both over without pulling out.

His flesh sank deeper inside her as she wrapped her legs around his middle. Emily arched up with a pretty cry of pleasure, and Paul’s whole world narrowed down to the soft strength of her, the warm, perfect shelter of her body, the depth of love he could see in her eyes.

He pulled back and thrust—long and deep—propelled by the need to love and be loved. Both of them at once.

Emily gasped and rolled her hips, digging her fingers into the back of his neck. “Paul!”

The sound of his name on that taken breath was so intoxicating he reared back and thrust again, rasping out “Emily” on the in-stroke.

She lifted her hips to meet his, their flesh slapping together deliciously. They built up a shared motion that was urgent, hungry, and almost primal in its rhythm.

The blanket slipped down around his ass, baring his back to the cool of the room. But the contrast between the cool temperature of the room and the heat he was generating with Emily only added to his stimulation. When he felt a climax starting to coil in his balls, he accelerated the pumping of his hips, grunting in rough bursts of instinctive sound.

Paul knew Emily was with him. Her breathless whimpers, her shameless writhing beneath him, and her eager, clutching hands proved that she needed this as much as he did.

“Eh, Paul!” she gasped as they moved together almost frantically. “Love you.” Her neck arched and her eyes fell shut briefly. “Love you!”

“Me too,” Paul choked, barely leashing the momentum of his impending climax. “Love you too.”

The tension inside her broke visibly as she came.

Paul released a rough exclamation, freezing inside her as the deep, coiled pressure shuddered with unbearable intensity.

Then he heard Emily breathe, “Love you, Paul. Let go.”

He let go and came hard. Whispered her name like a secret.

Then her arms were gathering him in, and he’d collapsed into her embrace.

He wondered what he’d ever done to be allowed such a thing—soft, shuddering, warm, loving Emily in his arms.

Maybe for the rest of his life.

It was a long time before either one of them could speak. Even wanted to speak.

But eventually Emily began to shift beneath him and, with a groan, Paul rolled them both onto their sides to relieve her of his weight. His erection had softened, and he’d slipped out with the motion of the roll. Her legs were still tightly wrapped around him, though, and he wasn’t about to let her go.

Finally, the lingering edge of insecurity in his soul prompted Paul to murmur diffidently, “Do you feel okay?”

“Well,” Emily teased, “You are a very fine lover, but you haven’t yet sexed me into a coma.”

He couldn’t help but laugh.

***

An hour or so later, Paul woke up from a light doze at the feel of Emily’s moving behind him. He’d rolled over on his side at some point, and now she wrapped an arm around him from behind.

She lightly kissed his shoulder, then the back of his neck, then his shoulder again.

It felt more tender than sexual, so Paul enjoyed it without feeling any particular urgency.

After another minute, he felt her lips trailing lower down his shoulder blade. When they started to trace a distinct pattern, he immediately knew what it was.

She was kissing down the line of one of his scars.

“Don’t, baby,” he murmured, rolling over onto his back so she couldn’t continue.

His tone had been gentle, but she was still frowning when he met her eyes. “Why not?”

He wasn’t capable of explaining how much he hated the idea of those scars, of all they reminded him of. He never should have said anything about it, though, so he tried to make light of his objection. “You can kiss any other part of my anatomy that you get the urge to. That’s a standing offer.”

“Nice try. Why is your back off limits?”

“You know why.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your scars.”

He just shook his head.

“Paul?” she prompted.

“I hate them.”

She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss on his shoulder. “I know you do, but I don’t. I love them.”

He slanted a dubious look over in her direction. “That’s just weird.”

“It isn’t weird.”  She rolled over until she was almost on top of him. “I know they’re painful for you to think about, and I’m really sorry you got them. But I can’t hate them.”

“Why not?” Despite his discomfort with the conversation, he was genuinely curious.

“Because they’re part of what made you…you.”

Touched despite himself, he pulled her down into a deep kiss. When she pulled away, however, her expression was thoughtful rather than passionate.

“What is it?” he asked, having a feeling he wouldn’t like what she was thinking.

He didn’t.

“I think you should go see your father again.”

He let out a rough exhalation. “Emily—”

“I know it wouldn’t be any fun for you to do, but I still think you should.”

“Why exactly?”

“To talk to him. To find out…I really think he’s the reason I’m alive today, Paul. He was the one who made sure we found that report.”

“He also could have been the reason you got sick in the first place.”

“Maybe. But maybe not. We just don’t know about that for sure. I know you disagree, but I still don’t think he was responsible for me getting virus. Either way, I really think he was trying to help you by leading you to that report. And I think…I think it would be good for you to see that.”

He knew she was serious, so he didn’t want to just blow her off with the sharp retort that sprang to his lips.

But going to visit his father was the last thing in the world he wanted to do. He was just finally starting to feel good about things.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last. Even that gesture was harder than it should have been.

She leaned down to kiss him again. “Good. Please do.”

***

Two days later, Paul went to visit his father in prison.

He wasn’t sure what to expect—except more of the same. His conversation with Emily was nagging at him, though, and he figured he could survive another visit with his father. However badly it turned out, he could at least be satisfied that he’d done the right thing.

But when his father was escorted out to the visiting room and sat down across from him, Paul was suddenly frozen. He’d thought over some ways to begin this conversation, but he couldn’t remember any of them at the moment.

He couldn’t think of anything to say at all.

He didn’t even know why he was here.

Vincent Marino had always been in the habit of letting others begin conversations, since being the first to speak meant needlessly giving away the advantage. Today, however, he didn’t hesitate to begin. “You don’t look like a husband in mourning.”

“I’m not, as I’m sure you’re very well aware. Emily’s virus has been effectively treated.”

“Good.”

Paul didn’t reply.

“If you aren’t here to share your joy at her miraculous recovery, then why exactly are you here?”

Even the wording of that question itself was uncharacteristic of Vincent Marino. It gave away too much.

Since his father was being so unusually blunt, Paul decided he would be as well. “Were you the one responsible for us finding that report on Emily’s virus?”

His father almost smiled. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s entirely possible you did it. It would be just like you to hide the report where we’d be likely to find it rather than just giving it to me directly.”

“Perhaps. But that doesn’t really answer the question.”

Paul let out a tired sigh, wondering why he was even bothering. Nothing was going to be accomplished by this conversation anyway. “Do you really expect me to play this game with you again?”

Vincent stared at him intently for a long stretch of time. “It was never a game.” He paused before he added, almost as an afterthought.  “I’m glad your wife has gotten better.”

Paul could almost believe he meant it.

Since his father had as good as answered the first question, he asked another one. “Were you responsible for her getting sick in the first place?”

His father’s expression didn’t change, but something changed in his eyes. “You’re really asking me that?”

“Why wouldn’t I ask it?”

With a half-shrug, his father said, “It occurs to me, son, that you don’t really know me at all.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that, whoever you think I am, you don’t really know me.”

“I do know you. I’ve known you for years. I’ve never been surprised by you.”

“You just asked me if I tried to kill an innocent teenage girl in some sort of half-hearted retaliation for perceived wrongs.”

When put that way, it did seem a horrible thing to accuse his father of. “You’ve killed before.”

“Only soldiers.”

That was what Emily had told him—months ago now.

“And that’s supposed to be okay?”

“I’m not trying to justify myself to you. I was merely answering a question.”

Paul exhaled deeply. “So the answer is no? You weren’t responsible for the virus?”

“It’s obvious that I’m responsible in some way, since it was engineered in my research facility.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“What I don’t know is why you’re asking.”

Conversations with his father always went like this—one strategic bypass after another.

“I have no idea why I’m asking. This whole conversation was a mistake.”

“It’s only a mistake because you began it with a preconceived notion about how it would end.”

“If you’re not the one who gave Emily the virus, then who did?”

“Have you not considered that’s a question I’d like answered too? The virus came from my facility, which means someone in my company was responsible—either intentionally or accidentally.  I would very much like to know who.”

Again, Paul almost believed him. He wondered if he was changing his opinion or if he was just growing weak and gullible.

“Why should I believe you,” he asked, “when you’ve told me lies before?”

“I’ve never told you lies. I’ve only told you truths you don’t want to hear.”

Paul shook his head and slumped back in his chair. “Can you answer something plainly for once in your life? Did you do this to Emily or not?”

It was silent—too silent—for a long time. Then, “I didn’t.”

Paul believed him, despite all the reasons he had not to.

“I wouldn’t do that to her,” his father added.

“Okay.”

“Or to you.”

Paul sat perfectly still.

His father’s face was old, grizzled, so tired. “It might be time to admit that you’ve never really known me.”

The world was spinning around Paul—slowly and inexorably, disorienting him completely.

He couldn’t think of anything to say, so finally he just stood up to leave.

“Okay,” he muttered, knowing he needed to say something before he left.

He took a step toward the exit, but turned around one more time to look back at his father.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” Vincent Marino said.

Paul nodded, a little jerkily.

“She’s brave. And, beneath all the prettiness, she’s strong.”

Paul nodded again, a strange pain tightening in his throat.

“She’s been good for you.”

Paul nodded one more time before he walked away.

***

When he got home, he went to his home office immediately, sitting at the desk and staring at the computer screen blindly.

He knew Emily was home, but he also knew she would ask him how things went. He wasn’t sure what to tell her.

She found him there a few minutes later.

She propped herself up on the edge of his desk and looked down at him without speaking.

He met her eyes. Saw understanding, sympathy, affection, love. And all of it was stronger than the discomfort in his gut.

After a minute, he told her, “You were right.”

He watched as the realization processed on her face.  “That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah.”

“He loves you.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, those words weren’t followed by an instinctive internal resistance. He didn’t feel happy, satisfied, or at peace, but at least he didn’t want to bite out an automatic objection.

“Maybe,” he replied. “He’ll never be a good father, though.”

“I never thought he would be, but it means something. Knowing it, I mean. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”

That was all they needed to say.

***

For the next two weeks, Paul went into the office every day. There wasn’t any sort of requirement for him, as long as he got his work done, but now that things had settled down with Emily, he thought it might be a good idea to be a more regular presence in the corporate offices.

To his surprise, he actually liked it. Spending more time in the office allowed him to get to know his coworkers better. At first, they’d seemed rather suspicious, likely thinking he was entitled and useless, but they warmed up pretty quickly as he went out of his way to be both accommodating and efficient.

After the first week, he had a pretty good sense of what work life might be for him, doing work he enjoyed, work he was good at, for the company his mother’s family had built. He liked the idea of it.

He could spend his life doing this.

He got home late on Friday evening, and he found Emily in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure how long she’d been fixing dinner, but every single counter surface was a mess, and she appeared to have used every bowl and pan they possessed.

“I think I was too ambitious,” she told him with a grin.

“What is it?” He studied the bowls and pans, trying to puzzle out what meal they added up into.

“Portobello Chicken Piccata. But we didn’t have all the ingredients, so I had to improvise a bit.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his body into her back as she pushed chicken breasts around in a pan.

She turned down the temperature on the eye and then turned around to wrap her arms around him. “How was work?”

“Good.”

“Did you get that report done? “

“Yeah. What did Dr. Franklin say?” She had a faint dusting of flour on her jaw so he gently brushed it off.

She frowned up at him. “I told you in the text I sent. Everything is still fine. The virus is gone, so you don’t have to stress about every check-up that way.”

Paul was pretty sure he was going to be anxious every time she went to the doctor, for at least a decade or so, but he’d have to work on hiding it better so she wouldn’t get annoyed by it. “I was just wondering if he said anything else.”

“He said he was going to publish on this virus, and it would be the best work of his career.” After he laughed, she added, “He said I would probably be fertile again soon, so he prescribed me birth control pills.”

“Ah. Good thinking.”

They smiled at each other for a minute, and he tried to process the relief, joy, and awed gratitude. It made him feel kind of silly—like the kind of sap he’d never been—but there was no other way to handle the miracle that had been given him.

Emily must feel the same way. She actually looked a little emotional, but naturally tried to hide it. “I never thought it would happen. Any of this. It gives me hope that everything that is broken has the chance of being fixed. I never thought it could happen.”

“Me either.”

Her expression changed then. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What about?”

“I want to ask you something, and I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it.”

He gaped at her. “What are you talking about? Ask me anything you want. I’ll do anything you want.”

Her face softened with affection momentarily before she pulled it together. “How would you feel about having another wedding ceremony. Kind of like a renewal of our vows.”

“It hasn’t even been a year.” While he was fully prepared to give Emily anything in the world she wanted, this was the last thing he expected, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea about it. “Our marriage was always real, Emily. It’s not like we had a fake wedding the first time. I don’t think we need to act like we’re just now married for real.”

“I know it was real. I wouldn’t change our first wedding for anything. But I just wanted to have a wedding in the neighborhood. It’s fine if you don’t want to. It was just an idea.”

He drew his eyebrows together. “Why did you want to do it?”

She shrugged and looked a little embarrassed.

“Tell me.”

“You remember right after we got engaged, and you told me you didn’t think it was good that I was pulling away from everyone. All my friends and stuff.”

“Yeah. But that was understandable. People react in different ways to grief.”

“I know. But you were right. It wasn’t healthy. I feel like I’ve been living in this…I don’t know…this bubble or something because I didn’t want to let anyone in. Anyone but you.”

He reflected on this for a moment and realized she was right. He also realized that he kind of liked the bubble since it meant that he was the only important person in her life.

It wasn’t good for her, though, so he wasn’t about to indulge the feeling.

“I can see what you mean. So you think having another wedding ceremony would help with that?”

“Yeah. I could invite everyone I know from the neighborhood. And Stacie and her mom could be there. I just think it would make me feel like this marriage is part of my real life. The life I’m going to be living for a long time now. Is that okay? I didn’t mean to imply that our marriage was ever fake or that what we have wasn’t real all the time.  I just—”

“Emily,” he interrupted. “I get it. I really do. I’m happy to have another wedding.” He leaned down to kiss her. “I’d marry you every day for the rest of my life, if I could.”

She kissed him back, hugging him tightly. Then she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. “For a notorious bad boy, you’re really kind of sappy, you know.”

“I thought I was a geek.”

“You’re a sappy, bad-boy geek.”

He huffed with amusement. “Just don’t tell anyone else.”

So, a month later, they had another wedding ceremony in a church in the neighborhood. Paul had to admit it ended up being a good idea after all.

***

Paul wondered if the idea of Emily's being interested in sex again that evening was overly optimistic.

Probably.

This morning, Emily had been sore and exhausted and hadn't wanted to get up, and she’d teasingly told him that she’d been happy to indulge his primal nature the night before but he shouldn’t expect caveman sex again any time soon.

Paul had drawled that he’d be happy to indulge her primal nature whenever and as often as she wanted. She’d laughed fondly, but then she’d winced as she’d gotten out of bed.

It wasn’t really that long ago—less than six months—when he’d been absolutely convinced Emily was too young to think about sexually. She'd been completely off-limits to him, forbidden.

Many things had changed in these last few months.

They’d had rough, wild sex the night before. He supposed he shouldn’t hope that she would want to have sex again tonight. Just thinking about her was getting his body excited.

He glanced at his watch and saw it was after nine o’clock. Emily would probably be home soon from her dinner with Stacie.

He felt bored and restless and hoped she’d get home soon.

But he forced himself to focus on the email message on his computer screen and managed to type out a reply. Then he made himself focus on the next email.

“Are you ever going to stop working?” a lilting voice demanded from the doorway of his office.

He whirled around in his desk chair, his spirits brightening immediately at the sight of Emily’s casual prettiness and her deep frown. “You’re the one who abandoned me all day to go to class and then have dinner with Stacie.”

“And I’ve been back a full fifteen minutes, and you didn’t bother to emerge from your cave.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her grumpy tone. “Why didn’t you tell me you were home?” He got up and walked over to greet her.

“I was on the phone.” She returned his smile and was still smiling when she grabbed his shirt with both hands and pulled him into a light kiss.

“Anything important?”

“Chris. He’s dating someone seriously, and he wants us all the have dinner together.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Is that all right?”

“Of course,” he said. “You know I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

She curled up her lip. “Anything except let me stop getting tested for the virus every week.”

Paul narrowed his eyes at the abrupt shift in topic. “Do we really have to fight about that again tonight?”

“No,” she said, smiling again. “Not tonight. But it would make me very happy if you’d stop working for the night and come hang out with me.”

Paul chuckled. She didn’t have to know he’d already intended to do just that. “For you, I’ll make that sacrifice.”

They went to the media room to watch television, after making a stop in the kitchen because Emily wanted some ice cream. When they’d settled on the couch, Emily picked up their previous conversation. “So you’re really okay with the four of us having dinner?”

“Yes,” he told her, meeting her eyes so she’d know he was sincere. “He’s a decent guy.  I don’t mind at all.”

“Okay. Good. Thanks.” She gave a conclusive nod—a clear sign that this part of the conversation was done. She took another spoonful of her ice cream and, when she saw him watching, she asked, “You want some?”

“No. I’m good. How was class?”

“Fine. Kind of boring.” She made a face, staring at the television screen. “Biology isn’t what you would call the most interesting thing in the world.”

“It’ll be required at any university you want to attend.”

“I know that,” she said with a sneer. “That’s why I’m taking it first thing.”

This semester, Emily was taking a couple of classes at a local university, just to ease the transition into college full time.

Paul had told her many times that she could go to any school she wanted. She wasn’t limited to one in Philadelphia just because she was married to him. They could make it work wherever she wanted to go.

“And don’t think I don’t notice you trying to pick another fight.”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he objected, turning to her in surprise. “And when did I try to pick one before?”

“First,” she began, counting off items on her fingers, a move that was somewhat hampered by the spoon in her hand. “You tried to pick a fight about my getting tested for that damned virus every other day for the rest of my life.”

Paul stiffened in outrage. “You were the one who brought that up, and it’s not every other—”

“And second,” she cut in, blithely ignoring all of his facts, reason, and fair corrections. “And second, you tried to pick a fight about my going to some other college, when I’ve told you over and over that, of course, I’m going to a school here in Philadelphia. Like I’m going to live in a different city from my husband if I don’t have to.”

He relaxed back against the sofa and smiled at her, feeling inordinately fond despite the woeful injustice of her earlier claims. “I just want you to know that you can, if you want.”

“I know that, but I don’t want.” She scowled at him until she couldn’t hold the expression any longer and broke into a smile instead.

“I know it makes it awkward for you here,” he murmured. “That everyone knows who you are because of all the stories in the news, that you can’t feel like a normal student.”

She shrugged. “I’m not a normal student. I mean, I just don’t feel like the rest of them. I feel ancient or something.” She sighed and stared down at her ice cream. “I’m the same age or younger as everyone else in my classes, but I still feel…I don’t know.”

He understood exactly what she meant, and he understood why. What she’d lived through in the last months had changed her, and there was no going back from that.

He wasn’t the same either. A lot of his friends were still playing video games until late at night and getting drunk every weekend. He felt miles away from all that now.

He wanted to encourage her, so he said, “Give it a little time. You’ll start to feel more yourself eventually.”

She shook her head and slanted him a different kind of smile. “I feel like myself. Just like I’ve been through a war. Plus, most girls my age aren’t married to such a demanding, unreasonable man who constantly tries to spoil my fun.”

He chuckled. “That’s their loss.”

Her expression changed again, softened. She leaned into him until she was sprawled against his chest. “It certainly is their loss.”

He put his arms around her and held her against him. She felt clingier than normal somehow. “You all right, baby?” he asked, after a few minutes.

“Yeah. I’m good.” Her cheek rested against his chest, which rose and fell with his breathing.

“I mean it, Emily,” he murmured. “It won’t take you long to feel like you fit in at college. It won't matter who you're married to. People always like you…if you let them.”

She snorted against his shirt. “I guess.” She lifted her head and met his eyes. “I know it’ll be fine, Paul. I was just feeling kind of weird and lonely in class today.”

“I know.” He stroked her hair when she leaned her head back on this chest.

They sat together in silence for several minutes, Paul holding her as the voices on the television babbled on incomprehensibly.

After a while, she lifted her head and kissed him on the lips.

“What was that for?” he asked, since it had felt more like a gesture than a sexual advance.

She frowned. “Why do I need a reason to kiss you?”

“You don’t. It just seemed like there was a reason.”

“Just because I love you.”

“That’s a good enough reason for me.” He pulled her into his lap so he could kiss her more deeply.

The kiss was very nice, and his body was getting some definite ideas. So when he tore his lips away, he asked, “Are you still sore?”

“Yes,” she admitted, stroking his neck with her fingers in a way that made him want to howl. “A little. But maybe if you’re gentle, we could…”

“I can be gentle.” He leaned his forehead against hers and tried not to let the building tension in his groin cause him to buck up against her weight.

She paused on her way into another kiss. Her voice broke as she whispered, “I know how gentle you can be.”

He kissed her hungrily and was just getting into it when she suddenly broke away. “Oh! I have a great idea!”

“For sex?” he asked, confused and disoriented as she scrambled off his lap.

“No, this is something else. But it’s a great idea.”

“I thought sex was a great idea.” His body was definitely feeling her loss.

“That can wait for a minute.” She stood up and ran over to a desk on the other side of the room. Her worn jeans emphasized the lush curve of her ass. Her blonde hair was rumpled, and her neckline was askew. And she was completely absorbed in whatever she was looking for in the drawer.

He loved her more than anything in the world.

“Ah ha!” she exclaimed, straightening up and holding a pad of paper and pen victoriously.

“What are we going to do with that?” Try as he might, he couldn’t figure out how paper and pen would be a good accessory for any kind of sex he wanted to engage in.

She ran back over to sit beside him. “We’re going to make a new list. One for both of us. What we want to do. For the rest of our lives.” She beamed at him.

Despite the pulsing of his arousal, he couldn’t help but smile at her fondly.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asked, peering at him closely.

“Yes. It’s a good idea.” He let out a breath, trying to will his arousal down. “I thought sex was a good idea too, but…”

Emily laughed and pulled him into a hug, accidentally poking him in the back with the pen. “How about sex first. Then we make a new list for us.”

Paul thought—and told her—that this was an excellent plan.

EPILOGUE

The last time Emily had felt so miserable she’d been sure she was going to die.

Now, she was slammed with a wave of heat, pain, and intensity. She closed her eyes to breathe through it, her hand tightening on the arm rest in the backseat of the chauffeured car. She tried desperately to keep Paul from seeing how horrible it was.

When the wave finally subsided, she peeked out through her lashes.

Paul was glaring at her.

He looked stunningly handsome in his tailored tux, with the bow tie slightly loosened from where he must have run a restless hand along his collar. His face was a little pale though, and his gray eyes were narrowed over what she knew was intense anxiety.

“I’m fine,” she gritted out, partly because she was annoyed by his silent reproach and partly because she wanted to ease his worry.

“You should have told me,” he said, not for the first time that evening. His voice was slightly thick.

Emily fidgeted with her emerald necklace—the one Paul had given her on their wedding day six years ago. She wore an evening gown of silvery silk that draped flatteringly over her curves, but she wasn’t comfortable in it at the moment. She really wanted to get it off. “If I’d told you earlier, then we wouldn’t have gone to the banquet. And there was no way I was going to miss a banquet in my husband’s honor. It’s not every day your husband is appointed CEO of a company before he’s even thirty.” She stuck out her chin, so he would know she was serious.

“The damned banquet wasn’t that big a deal, and it certainly wasn’t worth—” He broke off his words when Emily was hit by another wave of heat and pain. He reached over and took her hand, letting her cling desperately to his as she tried to breathe.

The chauffeur was driving much faster than usual, since Paul had emphasized how important it was that they reach the hospital as soon as possible. Emily tried not to look out the window at the way they were weaving through traffic, since she was afraid it would make her feel nauseous.

She already felt bad enough.

When she was able to speak again, she gasped, “How long did that one last?”

“Sixty-five seconds,” Paul replied. She hadn’t noticed him looking at his watch, but he must have been doing so. “And they’re less than three minutes apart. We should have been at the hospital at least an hour ago.”

“I didn’t want to go then. I wanted to finish your banquet.”

“Who cares about the silly banquet?” Paul grumbled, gently brushing some stray pieces of hair away from her damp face. She’d put it in a French twist earlier than evening, but her elegant hairdo was starting to fall down now.

“I do,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in the backseat of the limo. “I’m so proud of you.” She suddenly felt ridiculously emotional and was afraid she might cry.

Another wave of agony overwhelmed her before she could, and she couldn’t do anything but try to focus on breathing, her vision blurring over with pain and intensity.

It was absolutely horrible, but it wasn’t like what she’d suffered six years ago. The sensations now were full, heavy, with a knowable pattern, rather than the empty, endless agony of being burned alive from a fever.

And she wasn’t going to die at the end of this.

When she could speak again, she turned to Paul and asked weakly, “Can you help me get my jewelry off? It's bothering me.”

Without comment, Paul gently helped her take off her necklace, the emerald earrings he’d bought her shortly after their marriage, and the bracelet he’d given her on her eighteenth birthday.

She held her heavily rounded belly and prayed she hadn’t waited too long to tell Paul she was in labor. She’d felt the contractions begin that afternoon, but she hadn’t said anything, thinking maybe they were Braxton-Hicks. When it was time to get ready for the banquet, she was pretty sure she was in labor for real, but the contractions weren’t very painful, and they were still fairly far apart. She'd been determined not to get to the hospital too early, since she didn't want to stay there for hours or be told it was too soon and that she needed to go back home.

The contractions intensified dramatically during the banquet, however, and she’d had a hard time disguising them during the last half-hour when Paul was giving his speech.

She’d seen him watching her, even as he was standing at the podium in front of a huge ballroom full of guests, and she wasn’t surprised when the first thing he’d done afterwards was put his hand on her forehead to check for fever.

That was when she’d told him they needed to go to the hospital since she was going into labor two weeks early.

“I thought first babies were supposed to come late rather than early,” she muttered, trying to relax and prepare for the next contraction, which she knew would come at any moment.

“We always did defy expectations,” Paul said, smiling at her with a tender look she knew he only gave to her.

She returned the look, but only for a few seconds, since another contraction hit just then. When it was over, Emily was uncomfortably aware that either her water had broken or she’d just peed all over herself. All over the backseat of the fancy car.

She gave a little sob. “Maybe I waited too long. I’m sorry.”

“We’re almost there, baby,” Paul murmured. “Just hold on.”

They were almost there.  When they arrived at the hospital, they discovered she was well into the transition phase and dilated almost nine centimeters.

Less than an hour later, she gave birth to their son.

***

“I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you,” Emily said, feeling weak and kind of giddy. “I should have told you earlier.”

Paul was sitting next to her bed in the quiet hospital room. He was still wearing the trousers and dress shirt from his tux, but his collar was hanging open and he’d pushed up the sleeves to the elbow.

She could see that he’d been wearing the cufflinks she’d given him on their wedding day—the Spanish Damoscene cufflinks with the horse and rider in black and gold. The sight, even now, gave her a warm, silly feeling of possession. Like they branded Paul as hers.

He shook his head. “Do you really think I care about that now?” His eyes strayed to the door of the room, through which their baby had disappeared a little while ago for a short trip to the nursery.

“I thought the labor would last a lot longer,” she explained. “That's what everyone had told me. I didn’t expect everything to happen so quickly.”

“Emily,” Paul said, his eyes narrowing in the way they did when he was exerting authority, “Stop stressing about it.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him fatuously. “I love you.”

Paul gave a huff of amusement, but his eyes were soft as he said, “I love you too.”

“Can you go find him and bring him back?” she asked, her eyes focused on the door to the room as well. She’d held their baby for almost an hour and even started to breastfeed him, but it still didn’t seem fair that they’d taken him away to the nursery for exams so soon after she’d gotten him.

Paul stood up. She had a feeling he wanted their baby back too. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She had to wait less than ten minutes before Paul returned to the room with their son.

“Everything’s good,” he said, reaching out to put the baby in Emily’s arms, “Jonathan’s perfectly healthy.”

Emily felt like an absolute sap, but she didn’t even care at the moment. She cooed over Jonathan for a long time, trying to resist the impulse to wake him up so she could see his pretty eyes.

He was her father’s namesake, and Emily wished little Jonathan could have known his grandfather. His other grandfather was still in prison and was likely to remain there the rest of his life.

Paul went to visit him regularly now. They weren’t close, but they were almost like family.

Prompted by that thought, she looked over at Paul. He was staring down at Jonathan with a look she’d never seen on his face before—a mingling of joy, bewilderment, and awe.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Paul nodded. It took him a minute to get the words said, but he finally managed. “You were my miracle. I didn’t think I would get two.”

Emily insisted later that the only reason she cried was because she was so exhausted after labor and delivery. If Paul believed otherwise, he didn't try to contradict her.

When she’d wiped the tears away, she gave Paul a wry look and asked, “Do you have our list?”

Always prepared, Paul went to retrieve a folded piece of paper on which were written twenty items, only three of which were crossed off.

He spread out the paper in front of her and put a pen down next to it. Then he took Jonathan out of her arms and held the baby so she could sit up and grip the pen.

She grinned at Paul, who smiled back, looking incongruously natural with a baby in his arms.

And, together, they crossed off another item from their list.

DELETED SCENES

The following scenes are from an early draft of Chapter One. I’d originally started the book earlier than the marriage proposal, but the scenes ended up being too disorienting and so I moved the information in them into exposition in the marriage proposal scene. But I still liked the scenes, and I thought some of you might be interested in reading them—as they flesh out some of the earlier encounters between Emily and Paul.

Some of the information and dialogue I moved into later scenes, so it may sound familiar.

When Emily King saw Paul open the front door of Joe’s Bakery, she straightened up from where she’d been leaning on the counter and went to pour out his large cup of dark roast.

He’d stopped in the doorway, talking over his shoulder to someone on the street. He was grinning when he turned back into the shop—the heart-stopping smile that caused even Emily’s cynical heart to flutter just a little—but his expression sobered as he scanned the shop, eyeing each customer in turn.

If their South Philadelphia neighborhood could be said to have royalty, Paul Marino was it.

Since he’d been five years old, locals had called him Prince Paul, although always out of his hearing. He despised the appellation and had been in the habit of beating up boys in school who were foolish enough to use the nickname to his face.

Emily had his regular coffee order ready when he approached the counter.

“Is that uniform out there all the protection you have?” Paul’s steel gray eyes narrowed as he looked out the glass storefront to the white car with distinct blue police markings parked on the curb.

Even before he’d gone to New England for college, Paul hadn’t looked or sounded like he was from South Philly—yet another reason he was set apart from the rest of them.

“Hello to you too.” Emily accepted the bills he’d handed her and dropped the change into the tip jar. She’d been working at Joe’s part-time for almost two years, so she knew the routine for all the regulars., Since she’d graduated from high school a few weeks ago, she’d started working full-time, trying to save up enough money for living expenses at college in the fall.

He ignored her sarcasm, still frowning out at the street. “You’re a witness in a federal trial and that’s all the protection they give you? Anyone could just walk in here and—”

“Cut my throat as I make coffee? Garrote me in front of the doughnut-eating public?”

Paul had tensed when he turned back to her, holding her eyes in that hypnotizing way he had. “How can you not take it seriously?”

“Your dad isn’t going to kill me.”

“How the hell do you know what he’ll do? He’s dangerous.”

She shrugged, trying to hide the way her stomach churned with the low-grade anxiety she’d suffered for the last five months.

Her father had worked for decades as a security guard in a research facility owned by Vincent Marino. Emily used to stop by to visit and bring him snacks when he worked the nightshift. One night, she’d gotten nosy and had overheard a conversation she shouldn’t have heard, making herself a target of Marino.

Not a good position to be in.

Marino was born into a long-standing organized crime family, but he’d used his ambition and business acumen to catapult his family’s crime business to the international level, setting up well-hidden trafficking networks in drugs, arms, women—anything that could be sold for a high profit margin. He posed himself as a corporate mogul now, but everyone in the neighborhood knew he was a criminal. The feds knew it too, which was why they’d jumped on the testimony Emily offered them.

Paul was Vincent Marino’s only child.

“What about Witness Protection?” Paul asked. He had dark hair—now ruffled from the wind outside—with classic, well-chiseled features and a lean, athletic body.

She’d had the biggest crush on him when she was thirteen years old and he’d been back from college for the summer to visit his mother. All the girls in the neighborhood had been crazy about Paul with his slick cars, sexy rebelliousness, and obsession with extreme sports.

Emily wasn’t feeling particularly charmed at the moment. She frowned back at him. “What about it?”

“Why aren’t you in it?”

The authorities genuinely believed that, despite his mob roots, Marino wasn’t violent, having been taken in by the white-collar persona he’d adopted over the last two decades. The neighborhood knew better. Marino was just a thug in a five-thousand-dollar suit.

“Because I wasn’t offered it, and I wouldn’t take it even if we were. I’m not in any danger, and everyone knows it. I wouldn’t have to be followed around by that cop if you hadn’t raised such a fuss with the local precinct.”

“I know him better than you do.”

“He can be violent, sure, but he’s old-school. He isn’t going to kill a seventeen-year-old girl from the neighborhood.”

“I’m not convinced of that.”

She was silent, wondering if Paul, with his privileged life and innate entitlement to anything he desired, really believed his own father was so completely ruthless.

“He burned down your house,” he added.

“When no one was in it.” She made the comment offhand, but she didn’t feel that way. She’d loved the old row house where she and her father had lived all her life. There wasn’t anything left to salvage after Marino’s men had burned it down as a warning to keep what she knew about him to herself.

The irony was, if he hadn’t burned down their house, she never would have decided to testify against him. South Philly wasn’t what it used to be, but there was still a lingering community loyalty that Emily would have intuitively fallen back on. She didn’t like to be bullied, though, and her instinct was always to resist all attempts to control her.

Marino had tried to do both.

“You’re going to testify against him now too, aren’t you?” Emily asked, trying to turn around the momentum of the conversation. “What about your protection?”

Paul’s decision to testify against his father had been met with shock and controversy in the neighborhood, with the locals evenly split between those who thought it was the ultimate act of betrayal and those who thought it was the only decent, responsible thing Paul had ever done.

“I’ve arranged for my own security,” he told her. “What about your aunt? Is someone watching her?”

“She’s home sick in bed. She can’t seem to shake this flu. She doesn’t have any important testimony to offer anyway—she’s just confirming what I say. There wouldn’t be any reason to kill her.”

Paul rubbed his chin distractedly, a hint of bristles making a slight scratching sound. “How can you be so casual about this? It’s your life.”

She met his eyes evenly. Paul was six years older than her, and until recently she wouldn’t have dared to give him more than a trembling greeting. “Right. It’s my life.”

“Anyway, the point is you need more security. I can—”

“You can what? Pay a bodyguard to follow me around? Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid. I can easily—”

“I don’t care what you can easily do,” she spit out, suddenly angry at his arrogant assumption that he had any say at all on her life. “I’m not a spoiled rich boy who lives on a trust fund and wastes his life partying, sleeping around, and jumping out of planes. I might have to work here every hour of the day just so I can pay for things like clothes and college, but my aunt and I don’t accept charity. We definitely don’t accept charity from you.”

Paul’s expression grew tighter and tighter as she spoke, and his eyes were cold and hard when she’d finished. “What have I done to you to deserve that?”

Emily drooped, letting out her pent breath in a rush. “Nothing. You haven’t done anything to me. I’m sorry if I was harsh.”

The truth was she was scared and defensive, and it rubbed her wrong to see how easy Paul’s life appeared.

His mouth softened slightly. “I really wasn’t offering you charity.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“Reasonable measures to ensure the federal case against my father doesn’t lose its star witness.”

Despite herself, Emily snorted at his dry, lofty tone.

Paul might be irresponsible and entitled, but he’d always been incredibly smart. He finished college when he was twenty and went on to get his MBA. How he managed to successfully earn his degree last month while still indulging his very wild lifestyle she couldn’t even imagine.

“Well,” Emily said, forcing down her defensiveness since it wasn’t really Paul’s fault, “It wouldn’t kill you to get a job.”

To her surprise, he didn’t laugh or shrug her comment off. “Believe it or not, I’ve been trying.”

Taken off guard, she blurted out the obvious question. “Where do you want a job?”

“Simone’s.”

Paul was neighborhood royalty not because of his father’s reputation, since many thought Vincent Marino had abandoned his roots long ago. His mother’s family had been equally important in the community—her great-grandfather having made a fortune by starting Simone’s, a national department store chain, and her father having been savvy enough to transition to successful online retailing just in time to keep the company from going bust.

Currently, Paul lived on a trust fund from his grandfather. His mother had died six months ago, leaving all she had to her son as well, but he couldn’t claim it or his share in the company until he’d turned twenty-five.

Emily could hardly blame the woman for not risking everything her family had worked for to a reckless bad-boy like Paul.

“What kind of job are you trying to get? Mail room clerk? Receptionist?”

The corner of his mouth turned up briefly, as if he were suppressing a smile. “I’m not expecting to be appointed CEO at twenty-three, but I’m perfectly well-qualified for some sort of position. The board just doesn’t trust me.”

“Can you blame them?”

The smile disappeared. “It’s my family’s company.”

“Yeah.” Emily thought about it for a minute, surprised and faintly pleased that Paul was actually serious about his desire to work in his mother’s company. In all the years she’d known him, he hadn’t appeared to take anything seriously. “Good thing the press hasn’t caught wind of that. Evil board members heartlessly shutting out grieving son from his birthright.”

Paul was leaning on the counter, but now he straightened up suddenly. His brows drew together.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head. He might have said something else, but just then Chris and Laura Mason walked into the bakery.

Emily had been friends with Chris since they both could walk. He’d been the star of the high school soccer team and had gotten an athletic scholarship for college. For years, Chris had been her dream guy, but he’d just never been interested in her that way.

Laura was his older sister.

She was gorgeous and built like a model, and she’d dated Paul for almost six months last year, the longest he’d ever dated anyone. For a while, it looked like he might have really fallen for her, but they’d finally broken up.

Laura was smiling as she approached, and she wrapped an arm around Paul in a half-hug.

Emily turned to Chris, his square face and brown eyes familiar and comforting.

“How’s your aunt?” he asked.

“Even worse. She seemed to have gotten better for a while, but then the flu or whatever just came back.”

Paul and Laura drifted away, absorbed in their own conversation. With their dark hair and movie-star looks, they were absolutely stunning together. Like they matched.

“What were you doing with Paul?” Chris asked, frowning toward the object of his question.

“Just talking. He was being obnoxious, demanding to know why I don’t have better security.”

“He doesn’t really think his dad would…”

Emily shrugged. “Who knows what he thinks?”

“Well, just be careful around him.”

“Around Paul? He hates his father. He doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

The incident that had confirmed Paul as a prince in their neighborhood was when, during the vicious divorce battle between his mother and father, he’d sided entirely with his mother. He never accepted a dime from his father, not since he was thirteen years old.

“Yeah. I know. But you know how he is with girls. He might try to…try to…” Chris cleared his throat, adorably awkward at the topic. “Get in your pants,” he concluded lamely.

Emily laughed out loud, in genuine amusement, her eyes straying to the corner where Paul was smiling irresistibly at Laura.

One thing Emily knew very well.

There were Lauras in the world, and there were Emilys.

The Lauras were adored by all who saw them, winning admirers and lovers by doing nothing more than flashing a smile. The Lauras married rich men and lived lives of ease and safety.

The Emilys of the world had to scrimp for every penny. Even though they were smart and nice and pretty enough, they still made it through high school without ever having a real boyfriend—since no one of interest ever asked them out. The Emilys of the world made stupid mistakes, like overhearing a mob boss’s conversation about drug trafficking and money laundering. And, being too stubborn to be intimidated into silence, the Emilys of the world ended up in ridiculously melodramatic scenarios like becoming witnesses in federal trials.

Emily had daydreams like everyone else, but she’d long since given up hoping they would come true. It was fine. She had a perfectly decent life and good friends. She didn’t need anything more.

There were Lauras in the world, and there were Emilys.

And the Emilys would never get the prince.

***

A month later, Emily sat stiffly in a hospital room and watched her aunt die.

When she first starting getting the fevers, she’d been restless, sometimes violent in her delirium. She wasn’t anymore. She just lay in the bed, so pale she matched the sheets, and she never even opened her eyes.

Maybe it was the medication, or maybe her body was simply shutting down.

Emily made a point of never lying to herself.

She was her aunt. She was all the family she had in the world.

And she was going to die before the week was over.

She’d been sitting by her aunt’s bed for the last several hours in a numb stupor, but a motion from the doorway managed to catch her attention.

When she turned her head, she saw Paul standing just outside the door, in all of his cool, expensive sexiness.

She hadn’t been expecting visitors, and she just blinked in his direction, trying to get her mind to work.

He made a slight inclination with his head toward the hallway.

After verifying that her aunt’s condition hadn’t changed, she heaved herself to her feet and walked on unsteady legs. Under normal circumstances, she would have resisted his summoning her with just a gesture of his head, but she didn’t have enough energy to argue today.

“Is she okay?” Paul asked after she’d joined him in the hall and they walked to an empty waiting area nearby.

She gave a silent half-shrug.

Her aunt wasn’t okay.

“I didn’t realize it had gotten so bad. I wish someone had told me.” Paul’s eyes were sober, strangely quiet, in a way she’d rarely seen them.

“She just kept getting worse. It happened fast.”

“I would have come back from Switzerland right away if I’d known.” He’d been skiing with friends for the last couple of weeks.

She gave another shrug. “What could you have done?”

“What do the doctors say?”

“They still have no idea. They’re assuming it’s a virus, since it didn’t respond to any of the antibiotics they’ve tried. They had the CDC in and everything, but no one has seen anything like it.”

“Has anyone else gotten sick?”

Emily shook her head. “It doesn’t seem to be contagious that way. They say it doesn’t pass from person-to-person contact. They have no idea what’s going on.”

“And the fevers are the only symptom?”

“That’s it. No symptoms except the fevers. But they just get higher and higher and last longer and longer, and they’re going to kill her soon.” She thought she’d cried as much as she could, but her voice still broke on the last word.

Paul glanced away, his expression strangely tight. “I’m sorry.”

She believed him. He’d played around most of his life, but he wasn’t a bad-hearted guy. “Yeah.”

“Have they…” Paul trailed off and started again. “Have the doctors considered the possibility that this isn’t random?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you and your aunt are witnesses against Vincent Marino.”

It was so strange to hear Paul talk about his own father so distantly, as if he were a stranger.

“I know that, but I’m the key witness, and I’m not sick. Besides, they tested for poisons and toxins and everything. They think it’s a virus.”

“I didn’t mean she’d been poisoned. My father traffics in arms, among other things, and he doesn’t just sell guns and missiles. For a while, he’s been interested in the development of biological weapons.”

She gasped. “You think he did this to my aunt on purpose?”

“I don’t know. It might not have been on purpose. Maybe your aunt was exposed to something accidentally on the job. I just want to make sure the doctors look into every possibility. Is it all right if I talk to them?”

Emily nodded, horrified by this new possibility.

It made a bleak sort of sense, though.

Everything terrible that had happened to her in the last year was because of Vincent Marino.

Paul glanced down the hall toward her aunt’s room. “Do they just have the one uniform stationed at her room?”

“Do we really have to go through this whole thing again?”

“It’s not enough.”

Emily was too tired and drained to have another argument about security.

Paul seemed to recognize this and took advantage of it. “One half-competent cop isn’t enough to keep you and your aunt safe. I’m not any sort of professional, but I could take that cop out without blinking.”

For a strange moment, Emily was attracted to him. Not in the old way—the kind of movie-star idolization—but in an intense, visceral surge prompted by the masculinity he exuded.

The weird response came and went in just a moment, since she wasn’t in any sort of condition to process or indulge it.

“And then you and your aunt would be dead,” Paul concluded, still looking down at the uniformed police officer stationed at her aunt’s door.

Emily didn’t know what to say to that, so she didn’t say anything.

“I’m serious,” he continued, turning his gaze back to her. “You may not believe it, and the feds may not believe it, but I know my father better than any of you. He’s perfectly capable of killing anyone he sees as a threat to him.”

She shrugged with one shoulder. “My aunt is almost dead anyway.”

“But you aren’t, and you’re still a threat to my dad if you testify against him. I don’t know what they’re thinking, just putting one half-assed cop on—”

“Would you stop?” she burst out. “I’m so sorry that my aunt dying is putting a crimp in your little vendetta, but I’ve got other things to worry about right now.”

Paul’s expression changed. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I know you didn’t.” She exhaled, suddenly as limp as a popped balloon. She swayed on her feet, and Paul reached out to put a supportive arm around her.

It wasn’t tender or gentle, but it was strong, and she needed it.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

She sneered at him faintly, too weak to give his presumptuousness the snide response it deserved.

Evidently realizing she wasn’t going to answer, Paul went back to their previous subject. “I’ll understand if you decide you don’t want to testify against him now, given what’s happened.”

“No. I still want to do it. Your dad doesn’t get to win, just because everything else has gone to shit.”

Paul’s handsome features relaxed slightly. “Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

“But still…” He cleared his throat. “Can I please do something for you?”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“Can I hire security to protect you until the trial is over?”

She just stared, wondering why she didn’t feel the immediate defensiveness she’d felt when he made the same offer before.

Paul gestured with his head toward a big man in a suit who stood several paces away. Emily had assumed he was related to one of the patients in the hospital, but she suddenly realized he was a bodyguard. “They’ll be discreet. They won’t get in your way. And they’ll keep you a lot safer than law enforcement seems capable of.”

She swallowed and thought about it. Then made a helpless gesture with her hands. She just couldn’t care about such things when her aunt was dying down the hall.

Paul reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. His grip was warm and heavy. “I might not be able to do anything to help your aunt, but I can keep you safe, Emily. Let me do it.”

For a moment, she couldn’t look away from him. She’d never seen Paul so utterly earnest.

“Can you trust me?” he asked, when she still didn’t answer.

Maybe there was no reason to trust him, since Paul had done little in his life but waste time, money, and relationships, but she did anyway. “Yeah.”

“You’ll let me keep you safe?”

“Yeah.”

He squeezed her shoulder before he dropped his hand. “I won’t let you down.”

***

Three weeks later, Emily buried her aunt with a simple graveside service.

The Masons opened their home afterwards so people could give Emily their support and comfort.

She liked these people. Some of them she even loved. But she didn’t want to talk to any of them. She didn’t want to see them.

She wanted to hide under the covers and wake up from this endless nightmare.

After an hour and a half, she couldn’t take any more sympathetic smiles or soft voices asking how she was. She felt too hot. Claustrophobic. She slipped away from the crowded rooms where people were mingling and eating from paper plates.

She went outside to the front porch and breathed deeply of the summer air, trying to catch her breath since it seemed impossible to cool down.

She hadn’t cried all day, but the world felt like a gray, slow-motion dream.

“Are you ready to leave?”

She stiffened at the unexpected voice and turned her head to see Paul standing on the walk that led up to the house. He wore the dark suit he’d worn to the graveside service and stood with his normal confident, almost arrogant stance.

He hadn’t come over to Chris’s house with her after the graveside service. She didn’t know why but didn’t care enough to ask.

“I shouldn’t,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse like she’d overused it, although she hadn’t really been talking that much.  “They went to so much trouble.”

“They did it for you. They’ll want you to do whatever you need to do.”

Emily looked longingly at the chauffeured car—which was the vehicle Paul had started to use now that he went around with bodyguards all the time.

She still didn’t think Vincent Marino was capable of violence against her. Or against his own son.

But Paul evidently did.

She wondered what it was like for him to believe that his father might try to kill him.

She didn’t have the emotional capacity at the moment to wrap her mind around it.

“Let’s go,” Paul said. He held out one hand in a subtle beckoning gesture.

Emily took a step toward him before she remembered her manners. “I need to tell Chris and his folks first. I need to thank them.”

“I can tell them, if you want—”

“No. I’ll do it.”

She went back into the too-hot, crowded house and managed to explain that she needed to leave. The Masons looked at her in kind pity, and Chris gave her an awkward but sincere hug.

He’d given her a surprise party in this house for her seventeenth birthday. Less than a year ago.

He’d given her a birthday kiss at the end of the evening, and she’d had dreams for weeks afterwards that he was finally starting to develop feelings for her.

He wasn’t. It was one of those daydreams that just died.

All of them did eventually.

Now she could hardly remember being the girl with such a crush on him.

Paul was waiting by the car when she returned.

When they got in and the driver pulled away from the curb, she leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

She was so incredibly tired. Her mouth and her eyes felt so dry.

Paul sat in the seat beside her, and she could feel his presence. He wasn’t a naturally quiet person, so he must be trying to give her some space.

He was used to being the prince of whatever room he walked into. Which was why she was vaguely surprised that he’d been so helpful for the last few days, taking care of all the logistics so she didn’t have to do anything but just show up.

On that thought, she opened her eyes. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For helping me out with all the arrangements. For everything.”

He glanced away, looking uncomfortable. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing to me.”

When he didn’t respond, she changed the subject. “Any luck with getting a job?

“Actually, yes, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Yeah. You gave me the idea. I threatened the board with going to the press, and they caved and gave me a position.”

“Really?” She tried to be happy for him. Even felt a few flickers of interest. “What’s the position?”

“Assistant Vice President of Management.”

“What does the Assistant Vice President of Management do?”

“From the first week of work, he evidently is the dumping ground for all tedious or impossible projects that anyone wants to get rid of.”

She gave a huff of something close to amusement. “Oh. Well, at least it’s something.”

“Yeah. It’s better than nothing.”

There was silence for a moment until Paul changed the subject, asking carefully, “Have you thought about what you want to do now?”

“I want to go home and sleep for days.”

“I meant long term,” Paul explained. “Where do you want to live? What do you want to do? I know you’re emancipated and working at the coffee shop, but you’ll need to figure out a long-term plan.”

“I know that.” She frowned, annoyed he was bringing up things she didn’t want to think about. “I can’t sort all that out today.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now, but you must have some idea. Isn’t there anyone you want to live with?”

She shrugged and looked out the window, trying not to snap at him the way she wanted.

“What about your former stepmother? Weren’t you close to your stepsister? What was her name?”

“Stacie. We’re not close anymore. We haven’t talked since her mom walked out on my dad.”

“But you liked them, didn’t you? If they’re as close to family as you have, maybe—”

“No,” she bit out, jerking her head back to glare at him. “They aren’t family. I have no family.”

He appeared briefly annoyed at her tone but quickly masked it. Evidently, he wasn’t going to argue with the pitiful girl whose aunt just died. “You need to live somewhere. You’ll start college in the fall, so maybe—”

“I’m not sure I’m going to college.”

“What?” His gray eyes had widened, and his abrupt tone and intensity were really getting on her nerves. “That’s crazy. I thought you were planning—”

“I might go sometime. I just can’t stand the thought of it right now. I can’t go about life like nothing happened.”

Paul’s expression softened slightly. “I guess I can understand that.”

“How nice for you—to be so understanding.”  She’d intended to sound sarcastic but not quite so bitter. She rubbed her face and wished it wasn’t so stuffy in this car, wished Paul’s body wasn’t emanating so much heat. “Sorry. I just want to get the trial over with. I can’t worry about anything else until that’s done. After it’s done, then…” She sighed thickly. “Then I’ll try to start my life again.”

He was silent for a really long time.

Finally, she turned to study him through narrowed eyes. “What?” she demanded, when she saw what looked like reluctance on his face.

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t sound very…healthy. To isolate yourself from your friends, to put your whole life on hold for so long, after going through—”

“Oh, just shut up.” She hated how young she sounded even as she said the words. She straightened up and managed to say a bit more lucidly, “You’ve put your life on hold for this vendetta against your dad, so I’m not sure you can lecture me about emotional health.”

“It’s not a vendetta.”

“Isn’t it? Aren’t you doing everything you can to get him sent away to prison for life?”

“But not for retribution.”

She raised her eyebrows. “For justice?”

“Why do you sound so dubious?” He looked almost offended, as if he’d forgotten he was supposed to treat her with kid gloves.

“You’ve never struck me as someone who would move heaven and earth for some sort of high-blown ideal.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He wasn’t meeting her eyes. He was looking out the car widow past her head, but she suddenly wondered if she’d offended him.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” she explained. “But he’s your dad, and a belief in justice isn’t really enough to…to do what you’re doing.”

“Betray him, you mean?”

She swallowed and felt her whole body flush at his frigid tone. “I didn’t mean that. I think you’re doing the right thing. But it’s got to be hard—since he’s your dad.”

“Our relationship was never anything like yours with your father.”

“I know.”

“He was never really a father to me.”

“I know.”

Neither said anything for a full minute.

Then Paul added, as if as an afterthought, “I owe it to my mother.”

“Owe what?” Even two months ago, she never would have had the boldness to question Paul Marino so directly. He’d always been a prince—too distant to really touch.

But nothing felt the same now. Not even Paul.

“I owe it to her to make something of my life. To do something…something worthwhile.”

Emily suddenly understood Paul in a way she hadn’t before.

His mother’s death had been a kind of turning point for him. He was trying to buckle down and work a real job. He wasn’t in the gossip columns for partying, drugs, or wild stunts nearly as much as he used to be. She hadn’t really thought about it much, since so much had happened to her in the meantime, but he must be trying to turn over a new leaf.

“Oh.” She was so hot she was sweating, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I thought it was about winning. Beating him.”

“That too.”

His tone was dry, but she was sure he was speaking the truth.

Everyone had something that was most important to them. Getting justice for his father—for his mother’s sake—was the most important thing to Paul.

Emily wasn’t sure what was most important to her anymore, and the idea of figuring it out nauseated her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to call up your former stepmother and stepsister? Surely you want to be around people you know and trust at a time like this. You’re just seventeen, and I’m not sure it’s a good idea—”

“Who the hell asked you whether it’s a good idea?” Her voice was more bad-tempered than she’d expected.  “I’m the one who gets to make decisions for me. I’m letting you protect me. I’m not letting you boss me around.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, suddenly so hot she could barely breathe. She fumbled at the door, trying to find the control for the window.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Can we please open a window?” she interrupted, suddenly panicking as the air blurred and thickened in front of her eyes.

Paul reached over to roll down her window, and she leaned toward the rush of fresh air, breathing it in desperately.

When she finally leaned back against the seat, she could sense Paul watching her, scrutinizing her. She was vaguely embarrassed but felt too bad to care.

He didn’t say anything.

Finally, he reached over and put a hand on her forehead.

She pulled away from his touch immediately, but he must have felt what he needed to feel.

He pressed the intercom that connected to the driver and said in a voice that was upsettingly urgent, “We need to get to a hospital. Now. Now.”

And that was the first time it occurred to Emily that she might have a fever.

EXCERPT FROM SALVATION

If you enjoyed Listed, then you might enjoy Salvation by the same author.

Gideon was supposed to be watching the game on TV, but I knew he was secretly watching me as I came back to the couch. I handed him the beer and tried not to wince at the stab of pain from my knee up to my hip as I sat back down.

If he saw it, he didn’t mention it. Just took a long sip of the beer.

He’d just been here an hour, but I was already ready for him to leave, since he was making me feel defensive and self-conscious. If he would just act like he had during the weeks at the Center, I wouldn’t have minded. He’d only talked about innocuous things then. It had been nice. Distracted me. Hadn’t made me think about anything painful.

It was different now, though. He was different. He seemed to always be pushing farther into my privacy, even when he was pretending to be casual.

I was sometimes tempted to tell him not to come by anymore, but I couldn’t bring myself to be such a heartless bitch to a man who’d been nothing but good to me.

“My team at work is having a cookout tomorrow,” he said, when the next commercial came on.

He paused, as if I was supposed to respond, so I just said, “Really?”

“Yeah. In the afternoon. Do you want to come with me?”

The invitation startled me, and I stared at him for a minute. He obviously wasn’t asking me out. There was nothing like that in our relationship and, if I’d sensed even a hint of it, I would have shut him out of my life completely. I was mostly surprised he would ask me to do something he must know I didn’t want to do.

I’d made it very clear since I’d left the Center that I didn’t want to be around a lot of other people.

“It will be really low-key. We can leave any time you want.”

I frowned and took a sip of water, mostly for a reason to stall. “I don’t think so,” I said at last, as I lowered the bottle.

Now he was frowning. “Why not? You might have a good time.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

Now I was getting annoyed with him. As always, I tried to force down the feeling, since it made me feel like an ungrateful ass. “Because I know. I’m not up to hanging around with a bunch of strangers.”

“It won’t be like that. They’ll be grilling and playing volleyball and there will be kids around to distract everyone. You won’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want. It might be good for you to get out a little.”

“I’ll decide what’s good for me.” My arm was hurting from my wrist all the way up to my shoulder, so I assumed I’d pulled something the night before when I was working out. I rubbed at the pain unconsciously and tried not to scream at Gideon. “You don’t get to make choices for me.”

“I’m not trying to make choices for you.” His voice was rough with impatience. “I just think you’re not letting yourself get back into life, and I don’t see how it can possibly be good for you.”

“I’ll decide what’s good for me,” I gritted out, using the same words I’d used before because I couldn’t think of another reply. “I don’t want to go.”

“Okay. Fine.” He leaned back against the couch, taking another gulp of his beer, and I could tell he wasn’t happy with me.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t happy with him either.

I felt frustrated and jittery and upset, and I really needed him to leave soon so I could get back on the elliptical trainer.

“Did you hurt your arm?” Gideon asked.

I blinked in surprise, and he nodded down at my arm, which I was still rubbing compulsively.

I dropped my hand immediately. “Not really. It’s just a little tendonitis or something.”

He reached over and took my wrist in his hand, and I jerked away from him.

“What the hell?” he asked, his eyes searching my face in that intrusive way again. “I was just going to rub it for you.”

I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want him to touch me. I wanted him to just go away so I could push myself into battered oblivion again. But, if I objected, it would just give him more ammunition for his concerns, so I relented and stretched my arm out.

He took it again and very gently started to rub the inside of my wrist.

I tried to relax back against the couch so he wouldn’t see that it bothered me. His eyes were focused on the television, as if his massage was simply an afterthought, hardly on his radar at all. But his touch seemed strangely careful, starting softly and growing more firm as he moved slowly from my wrist up to my elbow.

He had to touch me over my sleeve as he moved up my arm, since I was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt. It was a warm night, but I felt safer without any skin showing, so I never wore tanks and shorts anymore.

He didn’t say anything. He seemed to be thinking only about sports. But he kept up the massage for a long time.

It actually felt good. Really good. Easing the sore muscles, soothing them with pressure, causing pleasant sensations to ripple up through my shoulder. His fingers were strong and gentle at the same time, and I didn’t really understand how they could be both.

I took a shuddering breath and tried to pretend I wasn’t reacting. But I was. I was.

I didn’t want it to feel good. My body couldn’t feel good. It didn’t match how the rest of me felt, and so it was a jarring incongruity. Upsetting in a way I couldn’t articulate.

Something inside me was shaking, but I used all the will I could muster to force it down, to keep the shaking from moving into my body.

He was just rubbing my forearm. He hadn’t even moved past my elbow.

He’d massaged back down to my wrist, and I thought he was nearly finished. But then he started up my arm again, and this time his fingers were under the fabric, pushing up my sleeve as he went.

It felt even better and even worse. He was touching my skin, and the resulting sensations were pleasant, soothing, really good. And I simply couldn’t feel good.

For the first time, I looked over at him, trying to figure out a way to tell him to stop without worrying or offending him. But, as I looked over, I saw he wasn’t watching TV anymore. He was looking down at my inner forearm and the inside of my elbow.

And I knew—I knew—what he was doing. He was checking it. Because I always wore long sleeves. He was checking to see if I was cutting myself or doing drugs or something. He was using the excuse of the massage to pry even more.

I jerked my arm out of his grip and glared at him coldly, pushing my sleeve back down.

He saw the look and understood it. He knew I knew what he’d been doing and how I felt about it, so I didn’t have to say anything.

He wasn’t actually wrong. It just wasn’t taking the form he suspected.

***

You can find out more about Salvation here.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The quotation on Arion, the immortal horse, that Paul says in Chapter 13 is from Book 23 of the Iliad, translated by A.T. Murray (Homer. Iliad. Trans. A.T. Murray. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1924).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Noelle handwrote her first romance novel in a spiral-bound notebook when she was twelve, and she hasn’t stopped writing since. She has lived in eight different states and currently resides in Virginia, where she teaches English, reads any book she can get her hands on, and offers tribute to a very spoiled cocker spaniel.

She loves travel, art, history, and ice cream. After spending far too many years of her life in graduate school, she has decided to reorient her priorities and focus on writing contemporary romances. For more information, please check out her website: noelle-adams.com.

Other Books by Noelle Adams

One Hot Night: Three Contemporary Romance Novellas

A Negotiated Marriage

Listed

Bittersweet

Missing

Revival

Seducing the Enemy

Playing the Playboy

Holiday Heat

Married for Christmas

Salvation

Engaging the Boss

Excavated

A Baby for Easter

Overexposed

Road Tripping