play on the dark surface of the river. He wanted to see other rivers,

other cities, and knew his time was coming. "Have you ever thought of

moving back here, to live?"

"No, I haven't. Not really."

"Maybe you will." He stopped her, gentle hands on her shoulders. "I keep

wondering if you're real. Every time I look at you, it's as if you're

something I dreamed up." His fingers tensed as he pulled her closer. The

quick, unexpected strength, the sudden intensity of his eyes, his voice,

made her mouth go dry. "I don't want you to vanish."

"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured.

Her heart scrambled as he lowered his head toward hers. She felt the

warmth of his mouth, light, and so tender. He drew away, an inch only,

then slowly, watching her eyes, pressed his mouth to hers again.

Sweet, so sweet, she thought. So kind. Accepting, she skimmed her

hands up his back and let him lead her. With a master's touch he

stroked his lips over her face, then brought them back to hers for one

long, last caress.

"I'd better get you home." His voice was thick, unsteady. "Emma."

As if he couldn't keep from touching her, he ran his hands up and down

her arms. "I want to see you again, like this. Is that all right?"

She laid her head on his shoulder. "That's absolutely all right."

SHE SPENT ALL her free time with Drew over the next weeks. Midnight

suppers for two, long walks in the starlight, a stolen hour in the

afternoon. There was something more exciting, more intimate, more

desperate about the hours they spent together, because they were so few.

In Paris she introduced him to Marianne. They met at a little cafe

on Boulevard St.-Germain where both tourists and locals would sit over

red wine or cafd all lait and watch the world strut by.

Marianne looked more like a native in her lacy white tights and slim

short skirt. Gone was the spiky hairdo. The bright red hair was worn

sleek and short, and very French. But her voice was pure American as

she squealed Emma's name and jumped up to embrace her.

"You're here, I can't believe you're here. It seems like years. Let me

look at you. Christ, you're beautiful. I hate you."

With a laugh, Emma swung her hair behind her shoulders. "You look

precisely the way a French art student should look. Teds chic et

sensueL"

"Over here that's as important as eating. You must be Drew." Marianne

kept an arm around Emma's waist and extended her hand to him.

"It's nice to meet you. Emma's told me all about you."

"Uh-oh. Well, sit down anyway. You know, Pica.s.so used to drink here. I

come all the time, and try a different table. I know if I ever find his

chair I'll go into a trance." She picked up her gla.s.s. "Would you like

wine?" she asked Drew. At his nod she signaled the waiter. "Un vin

rouge et un cafd, s'il vous platt. " She sent a wink to Emma. "Who'd

have thought Sister Magdelina's boring French lessons would have come in

handy?"

"Your accent's still a C minus."

"I know. I'm working on it. So how's the tour?"

"Devastation's never been better." Emma smiled at Drew. "And their