He was sound asleep, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the blessed fire blazing, an empty bottle of wine by his side. He hadn't been shaved recently, and he looked rumpled, dissolute and beautiful. Like a fallen angel. She moved to stand in front of him and pointed the pistol directly at his heart. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he murmured, and then he opened his extraordinary eyes. "It's always unwise to shoot the man you're in love with.

And telling you I care about you is a waste of time. I wouldn't have crossed the ocean, come out of hiding, tracked you down, if you didn't matter to me.

I lied. I do that, you know, when it suits me. I would have thought you'd realized that by now.

If we don't risk it all, we may as well not write at all.

I hate to tell you, dragon, but that's an integral part of the whole usiness," he whispered. "If you're afraid to touch me then we're not going to get very far." She lifted her head to look at him. "I thought I could lie back and let you ravish me," she said with complete honesty. He shook his head, the smile hovering around his lips, his eyes intent. "This is a cooperative effort, my love. You have to do your part.

Jesus, woman!" he snapped. "When did we have to become Romeo and Juliet?

She had the underwear of a thirteen-year-old, as well, he thought. He glanced back at her. But the shoes of a courtesan.