His name was melodious in its French rendition, soft and sweet on her lips.

"Just say it," she begged him.

So he did. "Andre Lague is dead. Shot by the Nazis."

She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "And the children?"

"I don't know," he told her. "I didn't hear anything about any children."

"Andre and Mattise were hiding over a dozen children-Jews and Gypsies-in their attic."

There was no way those children could have remained undiscovered. Not with the Nazis searching chez Lague. He knew that, and she knew it, too.

She was still trembling despite her attempts to steady herself and he couldn't help it. He put his arms around her, pulling her close. She clung to him, and he was astonished by both her softness and her strength.

He heard his cane clatter to the ground as the entire world seemed to slow, as the earth itself seemed to grind to a halt.

She fit against him so perfectly, he wanted to weep. Instead he breathed in her sweet scent, closing his eyes as he felt the warmth of the sun on his face, as he felt his heart pounding.

Andre Lague was dead, but Charles was alive. And Cybele was alive, too.

He lifted his head to look down at her, at the way the sunlight shimmered on her eyelashes, the way it lit her delicate nose and cheeks.

Her eyes looked bruised and a little dazed, as if she weren't quite certain where or even who she was. She searched his face in surprise as he gazed at her, and he knew, at this moment, he was unable to hide anything he was feeling. It was all right there, in his eyes.

His fear, and his intense relief at finding her safe. His grief and his anger over the death of her friend. And all his smoldering, selfish desire, his petty physical needs. His weaknesses and his self-disgust, his very knowledge that to kiss her the way he wanted would be wrong. It was all there for her to see as surely as if he'd been stripped naked.

He saw something wild flare in her eyes, and she stood on her toes, pulling his mouth down to hers as she hissed, "Kiss me! Quick!"

She nearly knocked him over, pushing him back against the brick building, out of the sunlight and into the shadows. She had turned to fire in his arms, her mouth burning his, her arms entwined around his neck, one leg encircling his, the softness of her thighs open to him as if she wanted . . . As if . . .

Charles pulled her tightly against him, filling his hands with the soft curve of her rear end, angling his head to kiss her harder, deeper. Dear God. He found the edge of her skirt as well, as he kissed her again and again. Reaching up, he ran the palm of his hand against the silken smoothness of her thigh.

He felt her fingers on the buckle of his belt, and his heart nearly stopped. Did she want? . . . Was she going to? . . .

He heard it then, the sound of leering male laughter, and he broke free from Cybele's kiss to see three German soldiers looking out at them from the open bakery door.

Cybele pulled him back to her, kissing him again, her eyes open for a moment as she looked at him. And he understood.

She'd known the soldiers were there from the start. This wasn't real. She wanted the Germans to think they'd met here in this alley for a sexual liaison, rather than to discuss the devastating death of their comrade in the Resistance.

This wasn't real. His relief was mixed with a rush of disappointment so strong, he knew that if she'd actually unfastened his pants, if this hadn't been pretense on her part, he would have made love to her right there in that alley, without any thought to who might be watching, without any thought to the child they could well conceive.

And without any thought to Joe, who loved her, or Jenny, his wife, to whom Charles had vowed to be faithful.

But it wasn't real, and no matter how badly he wanted Cybele, he couldn't have her. All he had were these next few moments, this period of make-believe until the Germans tired of watching.

So Charles kissed her.

Not fiercely, as they'd kissed just seconds ago, not hungrily, not that explosive wrestling match of lips and tongues that had made him ache with wanting to thrust himself deeply and just as savagely inside of her.

No, this time he kissed her slowly. He made his lips soft and he took her mouth gently, almost lazily-but much more thoroughly than before.

This time he took his time and tasted her, memorized her.

Loved her.

She melted, somehow managing to nestle herself even more completely against him.

He knew he should have been ashamed-there was no way she could miss his arousal. Her friend was dead, and here was Charles, clearly ready for a quick roll. He deserved a slap across the face for his insensitivity. But she didn't pull away. She just held on to him, kissing him slowly, sweetly, until long after the Germans had gone back into the shop.

Finally she stepped back, and he let her pull free from his arms. He stood leaning against the bricks with his eyes closed, waiting for her to speak. Dreading what she might say.

He heard her ragged breathing as she tried to catch her breath, heard her clear her throat. "Please, Charles, forgive me-"

"Don't." He opened his eyes as he sharply cut her off. "You know damn well I don't need an apology from you. I sure as hell have no intention of telling you I'm sorry, because I'm not."

"En francais," she whispered, glancing toward the bakery door.

He couldn't say what he needed to say to her in French. He didn't know the words. But then again, he probably didn't know the words in English, either.

He refastened his belt and picked up his cane, silently cursing the pain in his leg. Funny how he hadn't noticed it at all with his hand up Cybele's skirt. He didn't know which was more awkward and unwieldy, his stiff leg or the fact that even now he was still almost completely aroused.

Maybe now she'd finally realize he wasn't any kind of hero.

"We need to get you home, back safely inside," she told him, trying her best to sound normal, as if mere moments ago her tongue hadn't been in his mouth, as if her body hadn't been warm against him, as if her very soul hadn't touched his. Moving painfully, he followed her out of the alley. "Then I'll go to Lague's-"

"That's too dangerous," he told her harshly. Jesus Christ, did she want to die?

She didn't meet his eyes. "I'll be careful."

"If you're going, I'm going, too."

"That's crazy!"

"Exactly."

She was clearly dying to say more, but there were other people on the street, and Charles's French was too awful. They went down the hill as quickly as he could manage, through the front gate, and around to the back of the house. She all but pushed him through the kitchen door.

"Joe's already gone there, looking for you," he told her. "Let's wait for him to return before-"

"Those children," she said. "Two of them were mine."

Two of them were? . . .

"They were staying here," she explained. "In my attic. Two girls. Simone and little Rachel-she's only four years old. But then, after you arrived, the weather was so hot, and I was afraid your being here would put them in danger. . . ." She was trembling again. "I sent them to Andre's, to assure their safety."

Oh, God. "Will they talk?" Charles gripped her shoulders and all but shook her. "Do they know your name?"

"They're babies," she said. "They knew nothing. Rachel called me Maman Belle." Her lip trembled. "I need to go. If there's even a chance . . ."

"There's not."

Charles and Cybele both looked up to see Joe standing in the door. He had tears in his eyes. "I was just there," he said quietly. "The children were taken away in a truck. All of them."

Cybele was silent, her face terrible. "Where?" she whispered.

Charles gazed at Joe, who met his eyes only briefly before looking away. The news wasn't going to be good.

"Where did they take them?" she said again, her voice paper thin in the stillness.

Joe wiped away his tears with the back of his hand. He couldn't answer, couldn't speak.

"Where?" Cybele said, louder now, pulling away from Charles. "Where did those monsters take my children? I'll kill them. I'll kill them! Every one of them!"

She tried to push past Joe, to get out the door, but he caught her, held her.

She fought him, slapping and kicking, and he simply endured until she collapsed against him.

Cybele, who never cried, was sobbing as if her heart were breaking.

Charles couldn't move. He stood there, with his own heart in his throat, unable to say or do anything.

As he watched, her knees gave out. She crumpled to the floor and Joe went with her, his arms still around her. He was crying, too, rocking her in his arms. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, Cybele. I don't know where they were taken. There's no way I could know such a thing."

"But there must be rumors. There are always rumors." She pulled back to look at him, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. She searched Joe's eyes, and her face crumpled. "To one of the death camps," she breathed.

"Cherie, it's only a rumor. We don't know for sure."

As Charles stood there and watched Cybele cry, he knew there was nothing he wouldn't do to help stop this woman's grief and pain.

Nothing.

But there was nothing he could do.

Absolutely nothing.

Chapter 11.

DAVID HAD FALLEN asleep in his clothes.

Which was a good thing, because apparently he wasn't aware of the pounding on his door. He also wasn't aware when the door opened. But he sure as hell came to fast enough when the overhead lights switched on.

He must've been sleeping with his eyes slightly open. It was as if one second he was in a cave, the next he was on the surface of the sun. He shut them tightly. "Jeez, Bran-"

"David!"

He squinted up at . . .

"Nightshade?"

He blinked, and sure enough, it was Mallory.

He reached down, checking to make sure he wasn't lying there spread-eagled and naked, the way he did nearly every night in his attempt to save money by not turning on the bank accountsucking air conditioner. His hand encountered clothing. Bathing suit, T-shirt. Thank you, God.

"You actually wear your glasses to bed?"

He sat up. "No, of course not," he said, then realized that he did, indeed, still have his glasses on. "Well, not all the time."

"David, I'm really sorry I woke you, but it's kind of an emergency."

An emergency. His sleep-fogged mind was slowly coming back on-line. Mallory had gone out with Brandon after the photo shoot. He'd dreaded hearing her come home with him, knowing the two of them were in Bran's apartment downstairs, together.

But Mallory wasn't downstairs. She was here. Alone.

"Emergency," he said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. "Are you all right? What do you need? What can I do?"

She smiled wanly. "Brandon is such a jerk."

Oh, God. David felt sick. "What did he do to you?"

"He didn't do anything except ditch me when I needed help. I'm fine-it's Tom who's not feeling so fresh."

"Tom?"

"Do you have a car?"

"Yeah. It's kind of old, but I can usually get it to start. Who's Tom?"

"My uncle." She took his hand and pulled him toward the door. "Remember, I told you about him?"

"The Navy SEAL." Mallory was holding his hand. Was this some kind of weird, wonderful dream?

David caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as she led him out the door. His hair looked like a bad accident. No way was this a dream. If he were dreaming, he'd at least let himself look more like James Bond and less like Jerry Lewis.

"He says he wasn't drinking, but he's, like, completely trashed," Mallory told him as they went down the stairs. "I don't know what he's taken. I don't know anything anymore. If you'd told me an hour ago that Tom was on something mind-altering, I would've told you you were full of shit. But he's like . . . he can't even sit up. I need to get him back to my uncle Joe's."

David stopped short as he saw him. Tom was a big man, and he was sprawled on his side near the last of the tiger lilies. "Maybe we should take him to the hospital."

"Not if he's high," Mallory said. "He's career Navy. If he's using . . ." Her voice shook. "If he's using . . ."