"Look at me," he said softly. "Open your eyes and look at me, angel face. I want to see the look in your eyes when you come."

"I can't," she whispered.

"Yes, you can," he told her. "And I want you to see the look in my eyes when I come. I want you to see everything you do to me. Any woman can give you a hard-on, Emily. But you can find paradise with only one woman. Now open your beautiful big blue eyes for me, angel face."

Look at him while he was f.u.c.king her? It had never occurred to her. She had just let herself get swept away. Could this be better? Emily opened her eyes and looked into his. He began to move on her, slowly at first, then with increasing rapidity. To her surprise the sensations were even greater. They were incredible. She could feel his thickness and the length of him more acutely. And then she was getting lost in his intense green gaze. She gasped with surprise and struggled to pull herself back, but she couldn't. She saw in his eyes what he couldn't say to her, and her heart was near to bursting. Did he see the same thing in her eyes? How could he not? And then the pa.s.sion threatening to overwhelm her did. Eyes locked on his she reached o.r.g.a.s.m, the shudders racking her body until she almost fainted with the pleasure they were gaining from each other, and that she saw in his own eyes. And when it was finally over they lay silent in each other's arms. There were no words left except the few neither of them could say. The three words that both Emily Shanski and Michael Devlin each wanted to hear from each other: I love you. They slept.

In the darkness just before dawn he brought them tea, and as the sun slipped over the horizon he kissed her lips and left her. She heard the distinctive roar of the Healy as it pulled out of her drive and went down Founders Way turning onto Colonial Avenue. Gradually it died away, and Emily fell back to sleep, only to be awakened by the ringing phone.

"It's after nine a.m., angel face," his voice sounded in her ear. "You've got work to do. Get going. I miss you."

"This is the second time this morning that you've wakened me, Devlin," she said.

"I liked the first time better," he replied. "I've got a full day, so I'll call you tonight when I get home."

"I don't suppose you'd like to commute back to Egret Pointe?" she suggested.

"Yes, I would, but I won't. I've got early meetings Tuesday and Friday, and a breakfast meeting with a group of distributors on Wednesday. I'll see you Friday night, angel face. Now get your pretty a.s.s up and start writing."

"Okay, okay," she responded. "Geez, I've never had an editor who was such a slave driver," Emily pretended to complain. "Or such a good lay."

Michael Devlin burst out laughing. "Get to work!" he told her, and rang off.

Smiling, Emily got out of bed, her fingers brushing the faint indent still in the pillow that his head had been upon. Then, dressing, she called down to Essie, "I'm up! Breakfast, please!"

"Up or down?" Essie called back.

"Up," Emily decided as she headed for her office. Just two more chapters to go. She ate the scrambled eggs with cheese that Essie produced, and drank her morning juice. Then she started to work. The last two chapters would almost cost Caroline Trahern her life, but her husband, the duke, would not only save her, but help her to attain the revenge she needed in order that the tragedy darkening her life could come to its final end. So that the duke and his defiant d.u.c.h.ess could live happily ever after. It was not going to be an easy transition. And there would need to be one more very hot love scene at the conclusion in which both Justin and Caro would finally admit their love for each other. If it were only that simple, Emily thought wryly.

The pa.s.sion that she and Devlin had shared last night had been different from any they had shared before. She knew it. And she knew he knew it too. From the moment he had picked her up at Kennedy there had been a new intimacy between them. The quiet time together they had shared. Fixing dinner. Eating before the fire, and watching an old movie afterward. He had been like a kid while she loaded the dishwasher, sc.r.a.ping the last crumbs from the gla.s.s pan that had held the apple Betty, and eating them with a grin on his face. And in bed afterward he had made love to her so tenderly. She had felt like a woman very cherished. And yet he still had not once uttered the word love. It was the only thing wrong with the picture.

Devlin returned that weekend for the Harvest Festival, which was set up in a farmer's field just outside of the village itself. They walked among the booths, and she bought him a knitted scarf, and he bought her a birdhouse. They ate corn dogs and drank cider, and he discovered that Emily had a fancy for pink cotton candy. He stood watching as she sat at a card table beneath an awning and signed books. They had spent so much time alone that he had never realized how charming she was with other people. She seemed to know everyone in the town, and they her.

He chuckled as a woman, obviously not a local, stood watching Emily for several minutes. Finally she walked up to the table. She put on her gla.s.ses and read the sign on the table that said, Best-selling Author Emilie Shann Will Sign Your Book for You. all proceeds of the sales go to egret pointe general hospital." The woman picked up a book and turned it over, reading the back cover copy.

"You write this?" she asked.

"Yes, I did," Emily said.

"I don't read these kinds of books," the woman remarked, replacing the book on its pile. "You write all of these?" She gestured at the other t.i.tles in their neat piles.

Emily nodded. "If you don't read romance," she said, "you might buy a copy for a friend or your local library. All the proceeds from the book sale are going to our local hospital. I live here. It's one of the ways I help the hospital."

"So it would be like a charity donation?" the woman asked.

"Yes, it would." Emily smiled.

"Could I get a receipt?" the woman wanted to know.

If he had been sitting there, Devlin thought, he would have strangled this b.i.t.c.h, but Emily just smiled again.

"Of course you can," she said. "I'll write it myself. Who would you like the book inscribed to, ma'am?"

"I'll think about it," the woman said. "You here all day?"

"No. Just a few more minutes," Emily murmured as the woman walked away.

"How do you keep so calm?" Devlin wanted to know. "I'd have killed the cow!"

Emily laughed. "All part and parcel of being an author who writes popular commercial fiction. There's no glory in it, Devlin. Look how well I did though. I got rid of all my copies of Vanessa and the Viscount, A Special Season, Marrying Miss Moneypenny, and The Vicar's Daughters. I imagine next year we'll do even better, as I have turned to the dark side," she teased him, and now it was his turn to laugh.

They ate dinner under the large tent set up for the meal. There was country ham, sweet potato ca.s.serole, creamed corn, cut green beans, rolls, and b.u.t.ter. For dessert, dishes of baked apples were brought to each place by the various church ladies and teenagers who helped. The apples swam in heavy cream, and were rich with brown sugar and cinnamon. There was coffee or tea.

"Decaf's in the pot with the green edge," Emily told him. "There's hot water if you want tea. But it's only Lipton's."

They sat with Dr. Sam and Rina, who introduced Michael Devlin to their neighbors on Ansley Court. And afterward Emily and Devlin drove home in the Healy with the top down beneath a large, almost-full moon.

"Is that the harvest moon?" he asked her.

"Nope. Harvest was September. This full moon will be the Hunter's Moon," she explained.

"But it was a Harvest festival," he said, puzzled.

"The Indians didn't celebrate until after the harvest was all in and everything set for the winter months to come," Emily said. "Then in October they hunted meat to be butchered, hung, or salted for the winter. Life was one long round of hard work back then. Still is, but, of course, the work is different. Did you like Rina's neighbors?"

"Yes," he said. "They're very nice. I thought Mrs. Buckley a bit mysterious, though. Pleasant, but standoffish."

"Oh, Nora Buckley. She's a widow. Her husband was divorcing her and taking everything. He had a hot girlfriend, but then Nora got sick. Long story short, he beat up the girlfriend, she filed charges, he was nasty with the judge, who denied bail, and he died of a coronary in jail that same night. Nora and her two children were saved from disaster. She works in a very elegant little antique shop on Main Street. The owner is extremely hunky too, and it's rumored he likes the ladies."

Devlin felt a bolt of jealousy shoot through him. "Would you like to f.u.c.k him now that you know how?" he asked her bluntly.

"Nope," Emily said calmly, but her heart was thumping with excitement. Yes, he loved her! d.a.m.n! Why couldn't he just say it, and be done with it? "He's not really my type, but I can appreciate that he's good-looking, just like you can appreciate a beautiful woman when you see her, Devlin." She smiled softly in the darkness.

He made love to her that night with a fierceness he had never before displayed. It was as if he were branding her with some mark that could be seen only by another man. They ate brunch at the inn with Rina and Sam the next day, and then Devlin drove back to the city. He called her later in the week to tell her he had to fly to Europe on business.

"You're still coming for Thanksgiving, aren't you?" she asked him.

"Yes, but I'm not certain I'll get out to see you before then," he answered her. "Everyone is excited about the sea change you've made. I know you don't like anyone looking at your work before it's finished, but I've shown the first three chapters to a couple of people. J.P. is suddenly ecstatic with what's she's read, and crowing that it was all her idea, and she just knew you could do it."

"You're why I can do it," Emily said softly.

"Let the b.i.t.c.h revel in her own glory, angel face," he replied. "You were a good writer to start with, and you're just getting better with new direction. They've decided to release The Defiant d.u.c.h.ess in April both here and in England. It's short notice. April was your pub date here, but we'll have to scramble to get it out in England at the same time with less than six months' lead time. And you know the English editions have different covers."

"I think the American cover would do nicely for both editions," Emily said to him. "It's beautiful, and other than the barest glimpse of bosom it's tasteful enough for England. Caro in her green riding outfit standing, with the duke in the background and the sea behind them. It's elegant. They could change the lettering to make it look different."

"It's a good idea. I'll see what they say," he told her. "Emily ..." he hesitated.

He was going to say it! He was going to say it! Her heartbeat accelerated. "Yes, Devlin?" Say it! Hurry up and say it!

"Take care of yourself while I'm away, angel face. I'll call you when I can," Michael Devlin said. What the h.e.l.l was the matter with him? He had wanted to tell her he loved her and he would miss her.

"Okay," she responded, disappointed. Why couldn't he say it?

"I'll miss you," he managed to get out.

"Me too," she said. "Good-bye, Devlin." No use dragging it out.

"Bye, angel face," he replied softly, and hung up.

Emily put down the phone with a sigh. This was getting ridiculous. Suddenly she started to cry, and when she finally stopped she picked up the phone again, called her cable company, and ordered the Channel. She needed a friend. Not Rina, who loved her like a mother. Or Savannah, who was far too wrapped up in her own life right now. She needed someone who would sympathize with her and comfort her. And maybe even help her to decide what she was going to do next. She wanted Michael Devlin for a husband, and she was getting d.a.m.ned tired of waiting for him to come around and say what she saw in his eyes every time he made love to her these past few weeks. Words she sensed on the tip of his tongue. Until he could say them she was going to be driven crazy wondering why. Sometimes love stank, Emily thought.

She finished up her work for the day, went downstairs, and had the supper that Essie had left for her. She took a bath, smiling at the lilac fragrance that perfumed the room. Then, sliding into a sleep shirt, she climbed into bed. When the clock in the hall struck nine p.m. Emily picked up the channel changer, pressed the on b.u.t.ton, and then programmed in the Channel. Almost at once the duke's library came into view. She hit enter, and there he was waiting for her.

"Caro, my love!" he said, coming forward to take her into his embrace. Then he stopped. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"No, Trahern," she said firmly. "No Caro tonight, d.a.m.n it! Emily tonight. It's a sleep shirt. I need a friend, and you are elected."

The Duke of Malincourt looked somewhat horrified by her words. "A friend? My dear girl, men are not friends with women," he told her.

"Maybe not in your century, but in mine it happens all the time. My mother and father were best friends. You know what almost ruined that friendship? s.e.x. Me. But Mama went on to become a gonzo lawyer who married a man who became a senator, and together they produced two children. As for dear old Dad, he became a pediatrician with a nice Irish wife and three kids. I was raised by my grandmothers."

"Dear girl, I don't understand half of what you are saying to me, but I can see you are wretchedly unhappy. How can I help you?" He motioned her to a chair by the blazing fire, sat down, and drew her onto his lap.

"It's your doppelganger," Emily said with a sigh.

"My what?"

"The guy in my reality who looks just like you, Trahern," she explained.

"What is his name?" the duke wanted to know.

"Michael Devlin," Emily answered him.

"Irish. The Irish are always trouble, dear girl. Dispense with whatever services he provides for you. 'Tis the best advice I can offer you."

"I'm in love with him, Trahern! I want to get married!" Emily wailed.

"Ahhh," the duke said as understanding dawned in his green eyes. "Has he said that he loves you, dear girl?"

"Not in so many words. Sometimes I think he's going to say it, and then he can't seem to get it out," Emily said. "What the h.e.l.l is the matter with him? Everyone says he loves me. And I sure as h.e.l.l love him!"

"Have you told him so, dear girl?" the duke asked her.

"Of course not," Emily replied. "Women don't tell men that they love them until men tell women that they love them."

"Well," the duke said wryly with a small smile, "at least that much hasn't changed in the centuries separating our worlds. What does he do, this Michael Devlin?"

"He's my editor," Emily replied. "And he's a really good one."

"So you have something in common," the duke noted.

"Yes," she agreed.

"And he is your lover?" the duke inquired.

"Yes," Emily said softly.

"Is he as good in bed with you as I am, or have you endowed me with his qualities?" the duke wanted to know.

"Trahern! This is not just about s.e.x. It's more for both of us, but I just can't seem to bring him up to scratch," Emily complained.

"Well, oddly I'm not particularly surprised by that," the duke remarked.

"You aren't?" This was interesting. "Why not?"

"You're too independent a woman, dear girl," the duke told her candidly. "Other than making love to you, is there anything else this man can do for you?"

"I don't understand," Emily said, puzzled.

"You earn your own keep, do you not? You own your own house. You manage your own funds, I would a.s.sume, as you are close to neither your father nor your stepfather, and you are certainly of a legal age to do it. What is there that Michael Devlin can do for you that you do not do for yourself? Men do not always think only with their c.o.c.ks, dear girl, and a man has his pride, y'know."

"If it were this century I would agree with you, Trahern, but in the twenty-first century women in my country, even here in England, take care of themselves. We don't need to be cosseted and wrapped in cotton wool," Emily told the duke.

"More's the pity, dear girl," the duke murmured softly. "Perhaps if you were not so formidable a young lady, your Mr. Devlin would act upon his instincts and sweep you off to the parson. Even in your century the men surely want to be needed."

"In my century men sell their seed for pocket money at universities," she told him.

The duke actually paled at her words. "Tell me no more," he said.

"You're a man, Trahern. Surely men haven't changed that much in the past three centuries. Tell me what I can do so that Devlin will tell me he loves me. After that I can handle it just fine," Emily said.

"I have not a doubt that you can, dear girl. I honestly don't know what to tell you except to tell him how you feel and that you need him. A man who avoids declaring himself to the woman he loves is often as skittish as a colt in a pasture. He needs to be rea.s.sured, for one of the two things a man fears most is rejection by the woman he loves," the duke explained.

"What's the other thing?" she asked him mischievously.

The duke chuckled. "I believe you already know the answer to that, you minx, although it has certainly never happened to me."

"Perhaps I should make it so," she teased him.

"Dear girl!" he exclaimed shocked.

Emily slipped out of his lap. "I feel better now," she said. "I'm going back."

"You don't want to remain?" he asked her softly.