Dominic's Child. Catherine Spencer

of khaki linen shorts. And yet, that was not quite accurate. Although invisible, desolation hung about him like a second presence.

      He stood before the low dresser that still contained Barbara’s things, his broad shoulders paralleling the bowed despair of his dark head. In the palm of his hand lay the diamond ring he’d given her, even its bright fire temporarily dimmed.

      Sophie’s breath escaped in a soft exhalation of protest at being too long trapped in her throat. The sound looped across the mourning hush that filled the room and wound itself around him, bringing his head up and swinging around to face her. His eyes were the deep dark green of moss clothing ancient gravestones. And his mouth...!

      Her heart contracted with pity, leaving no room for the anger and hurt she’d nurtured from the night before. “Dominic,” she breathed, and cupped her hands in front of her as if they held the magic formula guaranteed to wipe away his hurt.

      He blinked and focused his gaze on her slowly, the way a person does when emerging from deep sleep. “They told me you were gone for the day,” he said, his voice a husky echo of its usual rich baritone. “I thought it would be a good time to take care of... this.”

      His fingers closed around the ring, his other hand gesturing at the contents of the open drawer. Little bits of silk and ribbon-trimmed lingerie frothed in disorder, just the way Barbara had left them. Her suitcase lay open on Sophie’s bed, one half already filled with items from her share of the closet.

      Still poised near the balcony doors, Sophie nodded understanding. “I would have done it myself, except I didn’t feel it was my place.”

      “It wasn’t your responsibility.” Impatiently, Dominic tossed the ring on top of the articles of clothing remaining in the drawer and, scooping everything up in both hands, turned to stuff it in the suitcase.

      As he did so, something slid out from between the folds of fabric and slipped to the floor despite Sophie’s attempt to catch it. It was the tooled-leather picture frame that, for the first few days of the holiday, had sat on the bedside table next to Barbara’s bed. Hinged in the middle, it contained two photographs, one of Dominic and one of Barbara.

      Stooping, Sophie retrieved it and passed it to him. He sank to the edge of Barbara’s bed and for the longest time stared at the image of his dead fiancée.

      Not a trace of emotion showed on his face. The seconds slowed, tightening the already-tense atmosphere so painfully that Sophie wished she’d ignored her scruples and simply taken charge of packing Barbara’s things herself.

      At last, Dominic slapped the frame closed the way a man does a book that, regretfully, he’s finished reading for all that he never wanted it to end. But instead of completing packing Barbara’s things, he remained where he was, hands idle, with the photograph frame clasped between them.

      Yet another goodbye, Sophie thought, sympathy welling within her. He must wonder if they’ll ever end.

      Covering the small distance that separated them, she perched next to him and gently removed the frame from his hands. Unwillingly, he looked at her, the expression in his eyes veiled by the thick fringe of his lashes.

      He did not want her to see his grieving, as though there was something shameful in allowing himself to succumb to it. She knew because her brother, Paul, was just the same.

      What was it about men that what they accepted as healthy and normal in a woman they saw as weakness in themselves? Didn’t they know the healing took longer if it was denied? That only by accepting it and dealing with it could they validate eventual recovery from it?

      Seeing Dominic closing in on himself and refusing to let go, Sophie could only suppose they didn’t, and so she offered comfort exactly as she’d have extended it to anyone, man, woman or child, in the same state of grief. With one hand she reached up and brought his head down to her shoulder, and with the other raised his fingertips to her mouth and kissed them.

      For an instant, he resisted. She felt his opposition in the sudden rigidity of his arm, heard it in the hissing intake of his breath. And then, like a house of cards caught in a sudden draft of air, he collapsed against her, the weight of him catching her off guard and pushing her backward on the bed. He followed, his face buried at her neck, his hands tangling in her hair, his legs entwined with hers.

      He smelled of soap and clear blue skies and sundrenched ocean, all bound together by lemon blossoms. His skin, more bronzed than ever, scalded where it touched, the heat of him a strange elixir that penetrated her pores to coil within her bloodstream.

      At least, she thought it did—as much as she was capable of thought. Because what had begun as a reaching out in commiseration changed course dramatically, though exactly how and when escaped her. One minute she and Dominic were behaving with the decorum of two people sitting side by side in church, and the next they were rolling around on the brightly patterned bedspread with the hungry abandon of lovers.

      Somehow, his mouth found hers and fastened to it, seeking comfort wherever it was to be found. How could she have known the shape it would take, how have avoided what happened next?

      Without volition, her lips opened. She felt the heat of his breath, the moisture of his tongue accepting the invitation so flagrantly offered. There was no use pretending it was an accidental and utterly chaste collision of two mouths intent on other things, because it was not. It was a wrong and unprincipled and utterly, irresistibly erotic prelude to even greater sin.

      Without warning, the cool and distant Dominic Winter she’d known metamorphosed into a lover as swiftly as night fell on St. Julian.

      Of course, he could be excused. He was not himself. He was ripped apart with anguish, lost, lonely... oh, there was any number of reasons for him to behave irrationally. But what was her justification? Why did she wind her arms around his neck as if she never wanted to let him go, then kiss him back and let him touch her near naked body in its pitifully brief little bikini that she’d never have countenanced wearing in public?

      Why, when he pushed aside the spaghetti straps holding up the bra, did she shift to accommodate him? And when he stroked her breasts, then lowered his head to kiss them, why did she arch toward him with about as much restraint as a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline? How could she explain the rush of damp heat between her thighs or the aching drumroll of desire building within her womb?

      She knew why. This wasn’t some sudden tropical fever robbing her of propriety or decency; it was a slow-growing affliction that had begun months ago. That day in the Wexlers’ garden, it had been the impact of his cool green inspection, and not her rapid descent from the tree, that had sent her practically sprawling at his feet. He’d stood there like some beautiful avenging angel, and despite the disapproval manifest in his gaze and in his voice, something inside her had responded to him in a very primal way. He’d ignited a spark that had been waiting for a chance to burst into flame.

      She’d tried to ignore it, heaven knew. It had been the only sane course to follow, given that, in addition to his overt disaffection for her, he was also engaged to marry Barbara. A woman would have to be blind as well as stupid to think for a moment that a man—any man—would look twice at ordinary Sophie Casson if fascinating Barbara Wexler was his for the taking.

      But that was then and this was now. Barbara had gone, and for whatever reason, Dominic had turned to her, Sophie. Even in the midst of passion, she knew he was trying to lose himself, to forget, if only for a little while, his pain. And if it was shameful to welcome the chance to assuage his need, then she was guilty. Because wild dogs would not have deterred her at that moment.

      He stripped away her bikini bottom, fumbled with the belt at his waist, and she helped him, her fingers nimble at the buttoned fly of his khaki shorts. He rolled to one side, shrugged himself free of the confinement of clothing, and then he was covering her again. Covering her, and entering her, hot, frenzied, reckless.

      She took him into herself. Absorbed his pain, his loss, and made it hers. Did whatever she had to do, gave everything he silently begged of her, to make things more bearable for him. If it had been within her power, she’d have brought Barbara