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She slowly shook her head, her gaze clinging to his. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve no objection, Jean Marc.”

She could feel the tension flowing from him, enveloping her in its power. She disrobed, every motion steady and unhurried. In a few moments she stood naked before him. “Is this what you want?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.” His gaze went over her slowly. Whatever his purpose, she knew he wanted her.

She could see the thick column of his manhood thrusting against the smooth snugness of his trousers, the slight flare of his nostrils, the flush darkening the high planes of his cheekbones.

She knew and that knowledge was igniting an answering response.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.” He didn’t touch her with anything but his eyes. Yet it was enough to send a hot shiver through her. “And more. Go over and lie down on that lovely Savonnerie carpet in front of the fireplace. I have a fancy to see you framed against those exquisite colors.”

She moved slowly across the study to stand before the mantel. She stood with her back to him, looking up at the portrait of Charlotte d’Abois. “Is she the reason you hated my wig? You said you detested fair hair.”

“I don’t want to talk about Charlotte.” He was standing behind her, his hands sliding around to cup her breasts in his hands.

She inhaled sharply as she felt the hardness of his arousal pressing against her naked buttocks. She looked down to see the tan of his hands in startling contrast against her paler flesh. His hands left her breasts and slowly slid down her rib cage to rest on her hips.

“I don’t want to talk at all.” He held her quite still while he rubbed slowly back and forth against her. “Since you don’t seem to wish to indulge me by lying down, why don’t you bend over and hold on to the mantel?”

His hands left her to make adjustments to his clothing and then he moved closer. “Yes, that’s right. Now your legs, just a little wider…”

He sheathed himself within her in one swift plunge.

She cried out, her fingers digging at the cold Pyrenees marble of the mantel.

He froze. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. “It’s just…different.” His hot hardness inside her, the coldness of the marble under her hands, the feel of his clothed body against her nakedness. Different and darkly exciting.

He began to move, thrusting slowly, deeply, letting her feel every inch of him.

“Don’t cry out again,” he said thickly. “They’ll hear you in the salon.

” His fingers slid around and found the sensitive nub of her womanhood.

His breath was hot in her ear as he began to lightly pluck with a thumb and forefinger.

“You wouldn’t want them to know what I’m doing to you, would you? ”

She bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. The sensations he was provoking were indescribable. She could feel Jean Marc’s chest rising and falling against her naked back, the crispness of his linen shirt a sensual abrasion as he plunged wildly.

“You wouldn’t want them to know how much you like it.” His teeth pulled at her earlobe. “How you’re pushing back against me to take and take and take…”

Her breath was sobbing in her throat as she felt Jean Marc striking against her womb.

“You do want this, don’t you?”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t speak.

His finger pressed, rotated slowly. “Don’t you?”

“Yes.” It was an almost inaudible gasp.

“Then let me give you more.” He pushed her to her knees on the Savonnerie carpet so that she was supporting herself on her hands and followed her down.

His hands cupped her breasts, kneading, squeezing, pulling at them while he thrust deep.

“While you tell me”—he pulled out and sank deep again—“how much you want it.”

He was moving strongly, roughly, in a fever of hunger and need. “Tell me, dammit.”

“How…can I tell…you?” She gasped in exasperation. “When you’re giving me…so much pleasure I can’t even breathe.”

He stopped in mid-stroke and was still. “Mother of God, I should have known you’d do this to me.”

He flipped her over on the carpet and she saw his expression for the first time. Torment, pleasure, frustration, resignation.

He thrust hard, again, then a flurry of heated power.

She cried out, her fingernails digging into the carpet, not caring whether Simon’s men heard her or not.

He crushed her to him, burying his face in her shoulder while the spasms of release shuddered through both of them.

“Why?” Jean Marc’s voice was low as he adjusted his clothing and then moved to help her with the fastening of her gown. “Why did you say yes?”

“I don’t know.” Juliette didn’t look at him. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“To let me treat you like a tart I’d picked up on the docks of Marseilles?” Jean Marc’s tone was suddenly savage.

“Is that how they’re treated? It must not be such a terrible life. I really found it quite exhilarating.”

Jean Marc put his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face up to look in her eyes. “Why?”

“Because you were kind to me in Andorra,” she said simply. “And kindness should be returned. I wasn’t sure at first why you needed to do this but I knew the need was there.”

His expression was suddenly wary. “But you think you know now?”

“You were losing sight of the woman you were fighting and seeing me as myself.” She gazed up at the woman in the picture.

“You wanted to see me as the enemy again. You thought you might be able to do that here.” Her gaze shifted to his face.

“But you were wrong, weren’t you? You found you couldn’t see me in that way any longer. ”

“Yes.” He released her chin and his hands dropped away from her. “Yes, I was wrong. It didn’t work.”

She rose to her feet. “You don’t like me to understand you, do you?” She smoothed her curls with trembling hands. “I don’t like it either. It disturbs me. You disturb me. I find myself thinking about you when I should be thinking of my work. I will no longer let you do this to me, Jean Marc.”

“No?” His gaze narrowed on her face. “And what will you do to prevent it?”

“Once we’re back in Paris there’s no reason for us to have…a close association. We shall follow our own paths.” She met his gaze. “And I shall no longer let you have my body. There will be no child and you will not be allowed in my bed.”

“You intend to occupy my house but not my bed?”

“That was our agreement. The shelter of your house and protection as long as I wanted it and two million livres for the Wind Dancer. You have the Wind Dancer. As soon as we return to Paris I’ll go to the Café du Chat and give them the money.

I’m sure they can arrange for your writ of sale from Marie Antoinette.

Then you can attend to your business and I’ll attend to mine. ”

“Painting?”

Her lashes quickly lowered to veil her eyes. “Yes.”

“And we’re to live together, pure of all carnal thought?” He shook his head and the wicked smile she knew so well lit his face. “It won’t do, Juliette. Your temperament is too hot and the desire between us too strong. You’ll yield before a week has gone by.”

“No. And you won’t attempt me, for to do so would sever our bargain.”

“We shall just have to test the strength of your resolve.” Jean Marc stood up and moved toward the desk. “I gave you a choice once. I’ll not do so again.” His voice was almost casual as he added, “I believe we shall wed in time.”

She stared at him, stunned. “Wed?”

“As you pointed out, the child must have the Andreas name.” He smiled. “And I fully intend to get you with child, Juliette. I’ve just come to that decision.”

“But I told you I have no intention—” She moved toward the door. “You’re quite mad.”

“You give me no choice. It may be the only way I can win the game.”

She unlocked the door.

“Juliette.”

She glanced back at him.

The mockery was gone from his expression. “I…I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“I would not let you hurt me.” She turned away from him. “I’ll be in the garden when you’re ready to go back to the ship. When do we set sail for Cannes?”

“We don’t.”

She turned back to face him. “We’re not going back to Vasaro?”

“We’ll leave from Marseilles to Paris. If we go back to Cannes, there’s every chance Francois will have persuaded the representatives to impound the Bonne Chance and seize the cargo.” He grimaced. “I won’t take that risk. I’ve already lost eight ships to the republic.”

“Won’t the ship be impounded in Marseilles?”

“The ship won’t dock at Marseilles. We’ll anchor off the coast and go ashore by longboat with our baggage and the statue.”

“You’re taking the Wind Dancer to Paris?”

“I want it with me. No one would suspect I would keep the statue with me.”

“And where does the Bonne Chance go from here?”

“To Charleston harbor in America to rendezvous with the rest of the fleet.”

She stared at him thoughtfully. “You planned all of this before you left Paris.”

“One must think ahead.” He smiled. “And speaking of planning ahead, what name shall we choose for my son?”

She gazed at him in bewilderment and, for the first time, uncertainty. Jean Marc was clever, relentless, and had decided on a plan of action that could sweep her from the course she had set if she weren’t equally clever and determined. “Impossible.”

“A strange name, but if you insist, I shan’t raise any objection to your—”

The closing of the door behind her cut off the rest of his words.

The broom had been harvested and now the fields of Vasaro burst into bloom with hyacinths, cassias, and narcissus.

Violets, too, came into flower but not in the fields.

The deep purple blossoms loved the shade, and the beds lay beneath the trees of the orange and olive groves, where the picking had to be done many hours before dawn when the scent was the strongest.