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hands in his pockets. Over the top of the hills the moon
swam, like a silver crescent, trailing misty clouds. The wind
stirred slightly in the branches of the trees. From the house
she could hear the faint sounds of sweet music and a patina
of yellow light streaked the darkness by the door.
“You don’t mean that,” Marc said, his accent sounding
foreign for once, his voice thickened and uneven.
“I do!” she flung bitterly, hating him for that moment.
She was so afraid that he had guessed her love for him that
she could almost have killed him at that moment. Her pride
fought bitterly against her love, poisoning it.
He stepped closer and looked down, eyes glittering in the
moonlight. His profile was dangerously masculine, the light
shafting on the narrow planes of his cheekbones and jaw. “If
I thought for a moment that you did—” he began slowly.
“Go away!” she whispered frantically, her hands pushing
at his chest.
But at her touch, as though a dam burst, he grabbed her
shoulders and pulled her close against him. She trembled,
feeling the hard litheness pressing against her. “No, Marc,”
she whispered in terrified appeal.
“I’ve had enough of being treated as an old-fashioned
villain,” he retorted harshly. “Like all women, you are not
honest enough to admit your own motives. You make up
fantasies and hide behind them. Well, I will not let you
fashion a fantasy about me. I’m real.” He bent her
backwards, his hands cruelly hurting her shoulders. “Look
at me, Kate!”
She nervously glanced upwards. His face was very close,
the features etched sharply in the moonlight. His mouth
