CONTINENTAL DRIFT
An Epic Overseas Carby Exploration

(Post-"Now What?")

CHAPTER NINE: CARRIAGES & PUMPKINS (Final Chapter)

Rating: PG-13 (or the new equivalent).

Summary: "Carter is frantic, Albrecht is about to make his move, and Abby is incredibly vulnerable"—these are the words of a reader, now a friend, who described to me exactly where we are in the story, and thus I thank her for her words. As you'll see, it's just about time for everyone to step up to the plate.

Disclaimer: Once more, characters theirs—story and dialogue mine. It's all just for fun.

Author's Note: I had no business posting this as one chapter. It's just that it was not written to be fanfiction, and I had to bend it to fit the format. I may not have done a good job. Once again, this chapter has a different "feeling" than the others. It was the hardest to write since we have no model for these emotions, but my dreams supplied most of them, as have yours, I'm sure. Although I tend to be meticulous about putting in factual background details—e.g., the description of the political situation in the Congo, survivability of blunt chest trauma in infants—I took liberties with legal matters here.

My plan was to ask for your feedback when it was all over, but you've been so nice throughout, I have no business asking for any more. If there is anything that you'd like to add, I'm happy to know what you think.

Thank you for taking the time to read this story, let alone comment on it. My deepest gratitude. Enjoy.

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THE ELEGANT WATERFALL shower felt refreshing against Abby's skin—especially after days of sweltering heat, humidity, mud, flies, and mosquitoes in the Congo. Luckily, the pounding water also began to wash away the tide of emotions that had been churning in her stomach for days—weeks, really. She soaped her body and shampooed her hair quickly and then leaned back against the cool slate tiles of the large shower stall and let the hot spray wash the suds away. She closed her eyes as she felt the bubbles slide down from her head onto her neck and then slip between her breasts along her stomach and down her legs and then curl into a circle on the shower floor and disappear down the drain, taking a few of her worries with them.

The well-appointed bathroom of Damon Albrecht's suite was a far cry from the trickling pipe that served as a shower when Abby was in Kisangani. Now that she thought about it, the dark-tiled room was also a far cry from the aging porcelain bathroom in her own apartment. Only Carter's dark-stone bathroom in his tasteful, upscale, two-bedroom apartment rivaled this one. Abby had showered there many times, and it had begun to feel like home to her. It was the shower in Luka's hotel room that remained a mystery.

SADNESS AND PAIN were the only aphrodisiacs for Abby and Luka, who liked each other and managed to enjoy sex, though they lacked the safety of trust, the warmth of friendship, the comfort of respect, and the passion of true love.

Abby had grown accustomed to waking up at Luka's while he was already shaving for work. He'd get out of bed without waking her, begin getting ready without a word to her, and order himself breakfast without a thought of her. Each time, she'd rise and dress and wave good-bye like a stranger who dropped in for the night—which she was. But Abby didn't think she deserved anything better. She learned that when she was seven.

So when she stayed at Carter's the first time, she was surprised to be awakened by his lips on her neck and shoulder. When she remembered where she was and whom she was with, a smile rose on her lips. He reached around and kissed them, and she rolled onto her back to give him better access to her mouth. He took advantage of their geometry to touch her gently above and below the plane of her stomach. They had drifted off together without clothes, having lulled each other to sleep with their own rhythmic sounds, which made it all the easier to pick up where they had left off the night before.

When it was time to pull themselves away from each other and get ready for the day, Abby strolled in and out of Carter's bathroom like she was at home. That morning, Carter lingered in the shower as she listened to the radio. Dressed only in a bathrobe of his, Abby entertained herself with a peek at his body as he soaped and rinsed, alternating with a peek inside his medicine cabinet. He encouraged her to make herself at home. To him, it made them seem like a family.

When he took his time in the shower, she admitted she both missed him and worried about wasting water, but in truth he was delaying her. She opened the door to get to the bottom of his procrastination, and he seized the opportunity to invite her in with him. He pulled the robe from her and let it drop to the floor. Then he pulled her close and kissed her neck.

"If I knew you were in such a hurry, I would have suggested we do this together," he teased.

Abby was dumbstruck by the powerful effect he had on her, and she closed her eyes to try to control it.

Carter released her hair from the clip atop her head and let it fall about her shoulders. He turned them so they stood under the stream of water with their arms on each other, and they shared hard, powerful kisses that made her knees weak. Her hair and body now wet and sleek, he pushed her against the wall and stared in her eyes. He started with her neck and shoulders and soaped up her body with his own hands. Then he stood back against the stone-tile wall of the shower as she rinsed the suds off and shampooed her own hair.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

"Watching you."

She smiled and shut her lids against the force of the water as it soaked her hair and body.

He never moved his eyes from her.

They were under the spell of the most sincere of aphrodisiacs—the safety of trust, the warmth of friendship, the comfort of respect, and the passion of true love.

ABBY FELT GUILTY luxuriating under the crystal clear water, knowing that some of the people she met in Africa would never be able to bathe in anything better than a muddy stream. Her somber mood returned, and she began to move quickly rather than inconvenience Albrecht any longer than necessary. Plus, she hoped by some miracle she could catch the 5 o'clock flight to Chicago.

She stepped out of the shower and dried off, and then she picked through the assortment of complimentary toiletries on a marble shelf over the sink. Abby brought almost nothing from her medicine cabinet at home, save deodorant and tooth accessories, believing that she'd be back in Chicago in less than 24 hours. Thus she was caught without some items normally essential to her daily life. Not even her nicotine patch did she carry—though Abby proudly resisted the temptation of a cigarette for the whole trip.

Albrecht had offered her the plush, white complimentary robe that came with his suite, and she pulled it around her body. She walked out into the bedroom and looked through her bag for her comb, and that's when she heard the door unlock.

Albrecht startled her when he returned to the room without announcing himself so soon after leaving.

"I'm so sorry, Abigail. I thought perhaps you'd be dressed by now."

"Well, I'm quick but not that quick," Abby joked a little nervously. "I guess I enjoyed the waterfall shower longer than I expected."

However, Abby actually thought she was quite hasty.

She waited for him to volunteer to leave again. When he didn't, she asked for a few moments of privacy.

"I hate to bother you, but I need a little while longer," she said, holding her thumb and forefinger just a little bit apart to show the small increment of time. "I'll be heading back to the airport soon, and so I'll be out of your hair before you know it."

She laughed awkwardly, trying to fight the alarms going off in her head. She felt the need to tug at the robe, and her hand clasped it tighter around her chest.

"Go ahead and finish up, Abigail. I won't be in the way."

"Please, I—"

"There's no need to be modest. You are a very beautiful woman."

He hopped onto the bed just outside the bathroom door.

Abby's senses were piqued. She turned slowly and headed into the bathroom trying to figure out how she had lost control of the situation and what she should do about it. She faced the mirror in front of the sink and reached to close the bathroom door. But he slipped in behind it. She jumped when he appeared in the mirror behind her loosening the tie he wore around the collar of the casual button-down shirt he traveled in from Kisangani. Abby instincts confirmed her doubts. She continued combing very slowly, and then his hands were on her shoulders.

"I'm pretty sure if I leave for the airport right away there may be room on the 5:00 flight, so I'd better move fast," she said attempting to sidestep out of away from the mirror. But his hands gripped her shoulders tighter. When she looked up at her face in the mirror, she saw her own fear and vulnerability—the parts of herself that she hated the most.

CARTER ORDERED THE taxi to stop. He stepped out and commanded his body to disengage from the rage he felt at Albrecht for deceiving him and himself for believing him. He needed to concentrate on finding Abby.

It was easy to get little Melisande to tell where Albrecht's regular room was. Suite 66, the big red door in the far corner of the 6th floor was not a place easily forgotten by a tiny girl scared of needles. Carter passed on the elegant-but-slow 19th century elevator and instead took the stairs to the 6th floor—two at a time.

ABBY WATCHED IN the mirror as Albrecht's lips came close to her ear. His hands clenched her shoulders, and he began to massage them. He let his fingers extend down to touch the skin just under the collar of the robe.

"Tell me about you and Dr. Carter," he said.

Abby's mind was racing, trying desperately to think of a way out.

"We've been together for about a year . . ." She tilted her head away from his warm breath.

"No, I mean tell me . . . things . . . about when you're with Dr. Carter."

Fear was Abby's enemy, paralyzing her and making her vulnerable; but anger and outrage were her allies, giving her strength.

She turned around and with all her might, she pushed him away from her with two flat palms against his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shouted.

Albrecht was startled for a brief second, and Abby reached for the door. However, in the next moment he seemed empowered by Abby's boldness. In an instant, he moved forward toward her again, this time pinning her against the sink. Now with his groin pressed against her stomach, she felt more vulnerable than she did a moment before. Though she tried to fight it, fear began to overtake her again. She gripped the sink behind her to steady herself, leaving the front of the robe to fall open slightly. He reached inside to help himself to her warm, soft curve of her breasts.

Albrecht heard the knock on the door to the suite even before Abby did. He held her still with his hand over her mouth, and then she heard it, too—and a voice.

"Dr. Albrecht?" they heard. "It's John Carter."

When he heard no response he tried again more forcefully. "Albrecht!"

Albrecht moved them closer to the door, still with his hand tightly over her mouth.

When there was no response, Carter knocked more softly this time. With his ear close to the door, he called her name tentatively as if he were terrified of a response.

"Abby?"

He knocked softly again. "Abby, are you in there?"

The sound of his voice made her tremble. He was just on the other side of the door—

Abby wriggled a bit to loosen Albrecht's grasp, he reached into his pocket and produced a small switchblade. When he opened it, she could see the spot on the blade that he positioned quite naturally against his injured finger had a touch of blood on it already.

Carter tried futilely to use the doorknob, and his frustration and worry began to show. "Albrecht!" He slammed his fist. "Your friends here at the hotel won't appreciate if I make a scene."

Albrecht's fingers covered her nostrils, making it hard for her to breathe.

"Not a word." He whispered to her. "You don't want to have to explain to Dr. Carter why you are completely naked in my hotel room, do you?" And he jerked her robe open wider, exposing her upper torso. Anger and humiliation forced tears up into her eyes.

Albrecht engaged the short chain on the door that limited the amount it could be opened and moved Abby behind the door where she could not be seen. He slipped his blade back in his pocket.

"I can reach it in an instant," he whispered to her. "Don't make me show it to Dr. Carter. He hasn't had very good luck with knives, has he? You told me that yourself." He kept his hand tightly covering her mouth and nose and opened the door the width that the chain permitted. Carter instinctively jammed his foot in to prevent it from closing, painfully capturing it between the door and the wall.

"Nice to see you again, John, but you'll never catch up with her this way. I'd like to visit, but you see I'm about to nap, so—"

"Where is she?" Carter said, leaning his weight on the door.

"Are we still talking about Abigail? Because I told you—"

"The little girl who lives here—she saw you with her today."

"Melisande? She's just a child. Certainly she's mistaken—"

Abby was frightened but could hardly tolerate the way Albrecht toyed with Carter. She couldn't breathe and made a decision.

She jerked her head out of Albrecht's grip.

"John!"

He heard his name accompanied by the deep gasp of lungs filling after being deprived.

In an instant, Carter reached through the narrow opening of the door. He grabbed Albrecht's tie and twisted around his hand and added a handful of the shirt beneath it and used them to pull Albrecht tightly against the small opening in the door.

Carter's heart pounded. In all his life he could hardly remember touching someone in a way that caused harm. Other than a good right punch to Peter Benton at a weak point in his life, he couldn't remember taking out his aggression on anything more than a punching bag. Hitting Benton left him feeling ill, and he was a little sick to his stomach at the moment as well.

Through tightly clenched teeth Carter said in measured tones, "Abby, step where I can see you, please."

"John, how did you—?"

He cut her off and exploded: "Abby, move so I can see you! I want to see you!"

And he slammed his free hand against the wall outside the room, which startled a maid cleaning a room down the hall. When she peeked out she shouted, "Police!" and ran toward the elevator.

His arm was getting tired. And he feared he was losing his grip. His heart was pounding.

As she pulled the robe closer to her body and tied it, she came around behind Albrecht and faced the slightly open door. And when he saw her, wet hair and naked, only the white terry cloth separating her from the hands of the animal who called himself a doctor, his heart nearly burst through his chest, and he tightened his grip on Albrecht, whose face grew red and began to gasp for air.

"Abby, are you okay?"

Carter's voice was shaking and sweat poured from his brow. When she saw him, Abby became more fearful for him than for herself.

"I'm okay, John, I'm okay. But how did you—"

"Get dressed and come with me."

She seemed confused.

"Abby, hurry up and come with me . . . please."

She quickly dressed and picked up her bag, while her soaking wet hair sprayed herself and her belongings.

"Carter, you're . . . making a . . . mistake," Albrecht gasped.

"If you touched her . . ."

Carter was seething, his nostrils flaring at the thought. He tightened his grip until Albrecht's face got redder, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees collapsed from under him. Carter struggled to keep him on his feet, but Albrecht lost consciousness and slid to the floor with Carter's hands still gripping his neck through the narrow wedge of open doorway.

"Carter!"

Abby stepped over Albrecht's form and unchained the door. Carter fell into the room with them.

He put his fingers to Albrecht's neck.

"No pulse."

Abby checked his airway.

"He's not breathing! What's wrong?"

"I don't know—maybe I crushed his windpipe," Carter said with his ear to Albrecht's chest.

He heard faint sounds and gurgling. "Starting CPR."

Carter began pumping Albrecht's chest and alternately breathing for him, and in quick bursts he told Abby about Colette's aunt and the rape and the origin of the scar. He explained that Albrecht may have done this to other women in the camps—and no doubt to other female acquaintances.

"Oh my God!" Abby mouthed. "He was always taking trips to the camps. He said there was a patient there—a boy with polio."

"The baby's mother had a boy with polio, but he died."

In moments, Albrecht was coughing and gasping but with a clear airway and a strong pulse.

"Come on, he's okay now. Let's go. The police are probably on the way. They'll get him an ambulance if he needs one.

Abby, angry, stood over him.

"Did you do that to Colette's mother? Did you father that baby?"

He lay gasping on the floor.

"Abby, let's go."

"Did you?"

"Abby—"

He lay on the ground, clasped his neck, and rolled away from her gaze in the fetal position.

CARTER WANTED ABBY as far away from Albrecht as he could get her as fast as possible. He led her swiftly down the stairs. He reached back to grab Abby's hand, but she never took it. In the lobby, Carter stopped at the desk and asked to speak to Melisande's grandmother. However, she was busy assisting guests and was not available. He left their contact information in the U.S. and a message that the police were on their way. He suggested she have Dr. Albrecht investigated and removed from her payroll. By now, Bendu would certainly have told Angelique, and it was likely Albrecht was no longer welcome in the program—perhaps not even in the country.

OUT ON THE street in front of the hotel, Carter and Abby were greeted by the strong late-afternoon sun. Carter turned to take her hand, but again he found her out of reach. She stood facing him on the sidewalk from yards away. She was grateful but cautious, and he got the message quickly.

They looked at each other quietly for a few moments. A few people hustled passed them on the sidewalk, but they didn't notice. They kept their distance and stared with hurt expressions. But moments later, despite the busy hour, not a person was on the walk in front of the hotel but the two of them. They each breathed slowly and tried to sort through pain and worry.

"Are you okay?" he said from their distance.

"Yes, I think so. Are you?"

He nodded.

"Thanks," she said. "For getting there when you did."

He came a step closer.

"Did he—"

"He tried."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

He starting walking toward her, but she quickly stepped back to keep her distance.

"Don't . . . please." And she raised her hand to keep him away.

His lips were pressed tightly together as he suppressed the urge to run to her. If he'd thought about it, he'd have realized he was a little angry—angry that his presence didn't prove something to her and angry that she hadn't run to him as soon as they were outside.

"Abby, I didn't sleep with Debbie."

She looked deep into his eyes. He took a step toward her, and this time she stood still.

"I was mad that you took your key back," he continued. "And I felt guilty about leaving Luka in Matenda and . . ."

She looked at him. She knew she hurt him, and she wanted to take it all back.

" . . . I was upset because I couldn't get you out of my mind."

He clenched his fists as he remembered how he tried.

"Debbie came to my room the night of the crash. You know, everybody's got a cure for my back," he half-joked to relieve the tension.

But Abby's face still showed pain.

"She didn't know about my relationship with you," he said and took a step closer. "Look, I admit it. For a minute, I thought that if I kissed her and was . . . with her . . . then maybe I'd forget about you. I thought that's what you wanted."

She took a step closer to him.

"It's not what I wanted."

"I couldn't do it," he said, coming closer still. "I can't be with anyone else but you. When I asked her to leave she did. That's it. That's all that happened."

She wanted to believe him.

"When I saw her—" Abby couldn't say the word bra. "Her . . . you know . . . I thought you—"

"But I didn't. I didn't, Abby. That's not who I am, you know?"

He moved within a few feet of her. His eyes struggled to get through to her.

She looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze.

"I know," she said. "It's just—"

"Abby, look at me."

She slowly raised her eyes but not her head.

"I'm not Richard," he said to her. His round, brown eyes struggled to appeal to her.

She inched over closer to him. He bit his lower lip, reached out, and tentatively touched the sleeve of her shirt, seeking permission to be close to her at that moment.

And she edged over and leaned her forehead to his chest and slowly lifted her arms around his shoulders. She pressed herself against him to find the comfort she needed so desperately just then. Carter gathered her close and rested his cheek against her hair, and relief fell over them as the loneliness of the past few weeks fell away, as it always did when they touched.

He hugged her tightly, and she curled against the warmth of his body and held on.

"I was only in Damon's room for a shower before my flight," she explained. "I wasn't going to—"

"I know. It's over now."

He pulled away from her and tilted her face toward his with the fingertips of one hand. With the other, he brushed still-soaking-wet strands of hair away from her face and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. Then he raised his hand in the air and hailed a taxi.

It was Abby who pulled him back down to her and wrapped her arms around him for a long, full kiss. A taxi pulled in front of them and waited for the two of them to finish their kiss. The driver did not disturb them. In fact, he looked away with a little smile.

After all, they were in Paris.

"EVERYONE IS GOING to want to get on that 5 o'clock flight to Chicago—especially all those people whose flights were canceled," Carter warned.

"Canceled?"

"There was bad weather in Chicago yesterday—they're all backed up."

"How do you know?"

"Susan—I called her."

"Susan!" Abby slapped her forehead. "She's going to kill me. I haven't called her since I left Paris."

"Yeah, well, she'll be happy to know you're all right, since I probably scared her to death when I said I didn't know where you were."

"You didn't!"

"I did—but I'll apologize when we get home."

"Well, I checked the flights when I landed in Paris," Abby said. "The next flights are—"

"—9 o'clock on Air France; 9:40 on United."

Carter knew, too.

"Well, I guess we have some time," Abby observed. "We can grab some coffee at the airport, I suppose."

"How about a little taxi sightseeing?" Carter proposed.

Abby nodded anxiously. She hadn't gotten to see any of Paris in her two short visits.

"DeGaulle Airport—and take the long way," Carter said to the driver, hoping he understood English. He added instructions to take them past landmarks such as the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre.

Abby kneeled on the seat and leaned almost her whole body out of the window as Carter pointed out sights of Paris that a girl from Minnesota might only find in books. He told of adventures with Bobby and recounted stories of his parents and grandparents in happier times. He laughed, and his eyes sparkled. To Abby, he seemed happier than he had been in months.

Soon she grew tired, however, and climbed down from her perch. She curled her legs under her and leaned against him. He continued his storytelling, but Abby just looked at his face. She was so grateful to be so close to him again and wondered how long it would last.

"The first time I ever saw the Moulin Rouge was with my grandfather—"

He looked down and caught her staring at him with a tense and furrowed brow. He stopped speaking, took her face in his hands, and kissed her.

"It's all over," he said softly. "There's nothing to worry about. I promise."

She nodded and snuggled against him.

"I'm tired. I feel like a nap."

"I feel like a party."

"Wake me when we get to the airport, party boy."

She curled up on the seat, lay her head in his lap, and fell asleep as he stroked her hair and face with his fingertips.

He looked at her and had an idea.

"Driver?"

Carter got the man's attention and gave him new instructions. He spoke softly, careful not to wake Abby. Then he leaned back in his seat and watched her sleep.

And he smiled.

ABBY DIDN'T NOTICE when they pulled up in front of the Hotel de Crillon, a palatial grand hotel situated in a huge plaza that looked more like a residence for royalty than a place for an overnight stay. It was Carter's boyhood home in Paris.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he said as ran his hands through her hair.

She didn't budge.

He moved the still-wet strands off of her forehead and kissed it. "Abby, wake up, we're here."

She cracked open her eyes slightly, and when she caught site of the magnificent edifice, she lifted her head from his chest, opened her eyes wide, and her jaw fell open.

"Carter, what is this?"

"I forgot to tell you. This party's in Paris."

"What? You're crazy. Where are we?"

"It's our hotel. Come on, let's see if Henri still runs the place."

Carter helped Abby out of the car.

"Hotel? I thought we were going to the airport?"

"I'd like for us to spend a night in Paris."

"We did last week."

"No, I mean the right way. Tonight. We'll go home tomorrow. Please . . ."

He moved a piece of hair out of her eyes.

"You need it," he explained. "You've been through a lot. And I need it, too."

He smiled at her, and for the first time in a long time, she smiled also. Abby squinted one eye and patted her pursed lips with her index fingers as if she were weighing the idea carefully.

"I don't know," she teased. "I am pretty anxious to get home to my sweaty apartment to see my ants and do my laundry. But heck, another day in the same clothes I've been wearing for week, why not?"

"I'll make it worth your while."

"I bet you will," she said, and they smiled at each other mischievously from the corners of their eyes.

Before she could protest anymore, they entered the palatial hotel through a magnificent revolving door and immediately found themselves in a grand lobby amidst the 18th century décor embellished with Italian marble and Baccarat crystal chandeliers.

Abby's jaw dropped at the splendor.

"I can't come in here, Carter, look what I look like!" With one hand Abby reached for her hair, while she tugged at her clothes with the other.

Abby's hair lay in half-dried strings. Her jeans were frayed at the bottom. Her shirt was wrinkled from the long flight from Africa. Not to mention that her eyes were still swollen from tears and lack of sleep. It didn't help that she still felt Albrecht on her skin.

Carter put his hand beneath her chin. "It's okay, come on."

She jerked back. "I thought you weren't comfortable with all this, anyway?"

"All what?"

"You know—opulence. Aren't you the guy that drives a Jeep and rents a two-bedroom apartment?"

"I like my Jeep—when it works. And I can't wait to get back to my two-bedroom apartment. But—" he looked at her face and tried to take strength from her. "—I don't want to feel . . . ashamed . . . anymore."

She smiled.

"Besides," he said, "I want to do it for you." He seemed to be winning her over, and it made him happy.

"I don't need any of this. You don't have to do it for me—"

He reached with his hand and curled her hair over her ear.

"I want to," he said gently. "Plus, it'll be fun to see it though your eyes."

"My eyes would be happy seeing the Holiday Inn at the airport."

He came closer.

"Look, tomorrow we go back to our regular lives, but tonight . . ."

He looked around at all he could give her, and for the first time in his life, he was proud of it.

" . . . I just want you to have one night you'll never forget, okay?"

He kissed her forehead and looked in her eyes.

"If you hate it, we'll never do it again," he added.

She smiled and looked around the elaborate room.

"I won't hate it," she proclaimed.

Carter asked a clerk for Henri and mentioned his name. "Tell him it's John Carter from Chicago."

"Monsieur Dr. Carter," sang a small, bald man who approached them with open arms. "It has been years."

"Nice to see you Henri. I'd like for you to meet Abby Lockhart."

"Mademoiselle," he said with a nod, though she half expected him to kiss the back of her hand.

"Dr. Carter, I was sorry to hear about your grandmother. She was a fine woman, and we'll miss her here at the Hotel de Crillon."

"Thank you, Henri."

"Tell me, what can I do for you?"

"Henri, I remember you had a suite . . ." Carter put his hand on Henri's shoulder and led him out of Abby's hearing. Abby saw Carter shake the man's hand. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought there were several bills in it.

Abby walked through the grand lobby of the Crillon over marble tiled floor, plush sofas, oriental rugs, and multi-tiered chandeliers. She headed for two large glass doors that led to a courtyard. Outside, workers were busy setting up chairs and tables covered with white tablecloths and satin bows. A woman stood in the middle and directed other men carrying large bouquets of spectacular flowers—white chrysanthemums, pink roses, yellow daffodils, white carnations. They arranged a set of chairs in a semicircle as if seating an orchestra, and a large grand piano with shiny black and white keys was rolled in.

Abby watched for a while until all the finishing touches seemed in place for whatever the event was they were preparing. Abby saw the first guests begin to arrive in long crepe and silk dresses and black ties. The hotel bellman tried to shepherd them to the party using a velvet rope, but Abby stood in the way.

"Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle?"

The bellman tried to get Abby's attention as he tried to figure out where to position the rope.

"I'm sorry. Yes?" Abby answered when she realized.

"Mademoiselle, do you belong with this group?"

Abby looked at the guests and touched her hair and jeans.

"No, I don't," she said and stepped out of the way but continued to watch from behind the velvet rope.

"Hey!"

Carter got her attention away from the preparations.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Looks like there's going to be a party."

"Not thinking of crashing, are you?"

"Depends. Make me a better offer."

"What do I have to beat?"

"Well, I think I see shrimp cocktail . . ."

"Pffffft. That's nothing."

He put his arms around her from behind and tucked her head beneath his chin. "I can do better than that." He reached down and placed two or three kisses just behind her earlobe.

"If you say so," she curled out from his grip, faced him, and slipped her arms around his neck. "But if they bring in an ice sculpture, it'll be very tough to beat."

They smiled and kissed, and she wondered what he thought deep down when he saw the well-dressed women pass her by on the way to the party.

"Come on, let's see some of Paris while Henri makes some arrangements for us—"

"Arrangements?"

"Uh huh. He's getting our room ready. Let's go for a walk."

"Walk? Look what I look like."

"Come on. You look beautiful—but walk a little behind me, okay?"

"Hey!" She slapped him playfully for teasing.

"I'm kidding," he said and slipped his arm around her waist. "I love the way you look."

"Thanks."

"Maybe we can buy you a hairbrush along the way."

"Cut it out!"

Actually, she was wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt and her hair had dried in pretty waves. She was free of make-up.

She took his breath away.

THEY WALKED FROM the hotel along the river, strolling among pedestrians, eyeing the river boats, smiling at children, and starting to relax again in each other's company. She reached for his hand.

"How did you get here so fast?" Abby asked.

"Bendu Nyobi—the pilot of the plane—he knows a guy . . ."

"Knows a guy? Did he smuggle you on a cargo plane?"

"Not even close—it was a Gulfstream V."

"A what?"

"I . . . sort of . . . hired a plane."

"You hired a plane?"

She stopped but he continued a few steps until he realized his hand was still behind him and attached to her.

"Uh huh . . . fancy one. Refrigerators, telephones." He was smiling as he told her, but she was not.

"You hired a plane just to come after me?" she said with wide eyes.

He nodded, and the look in his eyes told her he would do it again.

"You're crazy," she said.

"Why? You came after me."

"Yeah, but—"

"Why did you?"

"Because . . ."

"Because why?"

"Because I thought you might get hurt!" she shouted. "And because I wanted to be with you." She was a little annoyed that he forced her to admit it.

"Don't you think it was the same for me?"

She shrugged to minimize the effect his words had on her.

He stopped walking and moved over to the railing overlooking the Seine. She stood next to him, and he inched over until their arms were touching.

"You can't get away from me—not anymore," he said looking out over the water. "Wherever you go, I'll find you."

He looked down at her as she surveyed Paris next to him from the banks of the Seine.

"Wherever you are, I'll come after you," he added.

He awaited her sarcasm and was ready to answer it. Instead, she melted his heart.

"Promise?"

And Abby inched closer to him and looped her arm under his and leaned against him.

He turned his head and pressed his lips against her hair. "I promise."

A motor boat passed at speeds too fast and splashed them in its wake.

"Whoa!" They jumped back and laughed. Abby got the worst of it.

"My hair is just never going to dry today."

"Come on," Carter said, trying to contain his laughter. He reached for her hand and they kept walking.

At the beginning of a footbridge they came to a street vendor with a bucket of fresh-cut roses. Carter bought a pink one and stripped it of its leaves and thorns as they strolled. They crossed the bridge as the evening sun began to get lower in the sky, but the blades of late-day light were powerful, and Abby had to squint. Carter stopped mid-span and leaned over the railing to the river beneath him, working diligently on the flower.

"This is a side of you I've never seen," she teased.

He smiled but didn't respond until he broke off the long stem up near the bud and slipped the rose behind her ear and into her hair. He tucked his hand under her chin and examined his design.

"You're not serious, are you?" she said.

He thought she looked . . . ridiculous.

"It's Paris. All the women wear them," he said.

"Show me one."

She smiled with her shapely lips, and her warm, brown eyes hypnotized him. He lifted her face to his and stared at her.

An expert at lightening the mood, Abby said, "Uh oh, you're not going to recite poetry are you?"

"RRRoses are rrred," he began, trilling his R's in a terrible interpretation of a Shakespearean actor that she heard him do before, "Violets are blue . . ."

"Enough!"

And they laughed at his performance, and the flower fell from her hair into the river. They leaned down and rested their chins on their arms against the railing and watched the water carry it away.

"I'm not really a flower-in-the-ear type, you know?"

He nodded in agreement and turned to her, his head still resting on his arms. He reached over and touched her lips with his fingertips. She moved closer, preferring instead to rest her mouth softly on his, where her lips felt safe and happy. He kissed them back. With his nose against her cheek he breathed in the perfume of her skin, which he missed so much.

"I'm sorry," she said when they peeled away from each other.

"For what?"

"For being a terrible girlfriend."

"Where'd that come from?"

"I am."

"You're not."

"Yes. You needed someone to be with you when your grandmother died, and I wasn't. I hurt you, and I didn't intend to do that."

He didn't answer. She was right.

"John, I care about my family, and I always will—"

"Of course you do."

"I don't know what I did to deserve them. But I'm stuck with them, and they're going to need my help—"

"Don't say anymore. I don't want you to choose between me and your family."

"Except at funerals . . ." she said.

He sighed with a half-smile.

"I'm so sorry for what Eric did—"

His face grew darker.

"Look," he interrupted. "It's over," he said as he walked away from the railing and continued across the bridge without seeing if she followed. The wounds were still fresh.

Abby caught up with him, and they walked in silence for a while until they reached the other side of the bridge. A spectacular building lay before them.

"Is that what I think it is?" Abby asked.

Carter looked up. "The church?"

"Not just any church—the Cathedral of Notre Dame, right?"

"Yeah."

"Come on."

"What?"

"Let's go—I have an idea," she said.

"You want to see Notre Dame?"

"I don't want a tour. I want to go inside—for you."

"For me?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm not even Catholic—and you, I've never known you to go to church."

"I think you should go inside and say a proper good-bye to your grandmother," she insisted, taking him by the arm.

"Gamma wasn't Catholic either."

"Carter, work with me here," she said with frustration. "My brother and I ruined your first good-bye. She meant a lot to you, and we ruined it. You need to say good-bye properly or you'll never forgive yourself—or me," she said tugging him.

"Abby—"

"Look, I complained a lot about Catholic School, but when things got bad or I just needed a place to think, I'd sneak into the chapel, and it helped me. I told you I went through a religious phase."

The Cathedral of Notre Dame, with its Gothic architecture, moody interior, and priceless artifacts, was one of the grandest places in Paris. But to Carter, it was a place of mystery.

"What do I do?" he asked when they went inside.

"Just do what I do."

Abby approached a bank of prayer candles. She lit a long match in an already burning candle, and set another candle aglow. She bowed her head, and for the first time in years, Abby spoke to the heavens from a church. She said a prayer for the health of her brother and mother and asked for strength and forgiveness for herself. She asked for the courage to talk with Carter about things they had yet to discuss. And, finally, she asked for blessings for the soul of Colette . . .

In the dim golden light of Notre Dame, Carter watched Abby deep in her ritual, and it touched him. Her eyes were closed, eyelashes sweeping the tops of her cheeks, and her beautiful lips moved slightly in silent prayer.

She opened her eyes and little wet spots formed in the corners. She wiped them with her pinkies.

"Go ahead," she said.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say good-bye and tell her you'll do the best you can."

"Abby—"

"Tell her."

"Abby, this is crazy."

"What would you say if she were here?"

He thought a minute and said softly.

"I don't know—thanks for being my grandmother and my mother."

"And . . . " Abby prompted.

"And I'm sorry—" he said, choking a little on his own newly formed tears. "I'm sorry for being a disappointment to you."

Abby didn't expect his emotion, and suddenly she felt nervous.

She took his hand and pulled him close to the candles. "You didn't disappoint her; you were closer to her than anybody."

"She wanted me to take on the family business," he explained with guilt in his voice. "She wanted me to be more involved—"

"What she wanted was for you to be happy."

Her eyes and words soothed him.

She grabbed a long matchstick and lit it in the fire of another candle, and she handed the burning match to him.

"Light one and say good-bye," she said and stepped back to give him privacy. But he reached for her wrist and pulled her back next to him. He put his arm around her shoulders, lit the candle, and closed his eyes. He said his good-byes and wished Gamma a peaceful rest. And just in case there was something to all of this, he said thank you for Abby.

When he opened his eyes, she was smiling at him.

"Now we better get out of here before we see a lightning bolt with my name on it."

He smiled, and they walked out into the street as the sun got even lower in the sky. They strolled back to the hotel with clasped hands in the cool breeze.

HENRI CLAPPED HIS hands twice, and Francois, a dark-haired, blue-eyed young man, appeared before Carter and Abby.

"This way monsieur, mademoiselle," Francois said with a bow. As he did, Carter and Abby smiled at each other and silently mimicked "mademoiselle."

They walked to a private elevator and stepped on. Two floors later, Carter and Abby followed Francois to the huge, carved double doors of the Cendrillon suite.

Francois opened the doors and entered the room, and Carter and Abby followed. Francois turned on the lights and separated the curtains, despite evening settling in. Carter immediately set about checking the room: He peeked at the bathroom, made sure the telephone was working, and opened the doors to the terrace.

Abby, on the other hand, stood frozen in place a mere three feet from the threshold and gaped at the elegance and grandeur before her.

"Henri would like for me to bring you a magnum of champagne, compliments of the Hotel de Crillon." Francois's English grammar was excellent, but his thick accent was difficult to penetrate.

Carter looked at Abby, still frozen in place. She shook her head "no." He smiled proudly at her.

"No thanks," Carter responded. "We don't drink."

"Can I get you anything else, monsieur?"

"We're fine," said Carter as he reached into his wallet and gave Francois a tip—which must have been extremely generous, as the young man backed his way out of the room bowing over and over.

"I thought he was going to kiss your hand," Abby joked as Francois shut the door behind him.

Abby finally moved from her spot near the door and explored the suite where they would be spending the night. The enormous living room where she stood had ceilings that must have been 20 feet high. The walls were covered with hand-painted wooden panels, and rich pastel carpeting hugged the floor. There was a polished-wood dining table and a beautiful lacquer writing desk beside a plush sofa that looked inviting to Abby after their long walk.

At the end of the long living room were two doors made of glass divided into pretty rectangular panes. They led to a large terrace with a slate tile floor on one side and terra cotta at the far end. It overlooked the courtyard of the hotel. On the terrace, there were two or three dining tables, chairs and a striped, cushioned bench.

Back inside, a pair of heavy double doors led to the enormous bedroom with a giant king-size bed and the same plush carpeting as the living room. In the bathroom off the bedroom, beautiful beige and brown marble covered the floor and walls. The huge, old-fashioned footed bathtub caught Abby's eye.

At the end of the bedroom were two more double doors just like those in the living room that also led to the terrace. Abby stepped outside again and this time she noticed a plush upholstered swing that matched the striped bench, only it was much longer and deeper and attached to an iron frame. Abby sat on the swing for a moment and slid back in the deep seat, letting her ankles dangle off.

When Abby crawled out of the swing and went back inside, Carter was at the door to the room with both Francois and Henri. They rolled in a rack.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say it was a clothing rack.

The young man wheeled the rack past Abby into the bedroom. She peeked through the door and watched as Francois opened an interior set of double doors that Abby assumed was a closet and disappeared inside.

At the sight of Abby, Henri said, "I hope everything is up to your satisfaction, mademoiselle."

"Yes, thank you," Abby said, tugging at her shirt and smoothing her hair.

Henri bowed and left.

"What's all this?" she asked Carter.

"A surprise."

"Monsieur, it is all ready," said Francois.

"Merci," said Carter, and once again he placed bills into the hand of the young man, who bowed gratefully.

Carter closed the door behind him.

Finally alone, Carter asked her, "So, what do you think of this place?"

"It's amazing," she said nervously.

"That makes two of you," he walked to her and kissed her cheek.

"I think I need to sit down—am I allowed to?" she joked.

Carter laughed, "You can do whatever you want—but first, I want to show you something."

He brought her into the bedroom and opened the same doors that Francois did—the doors Abby believed to be a closet. The "closet" turned out be an enormous dressing room, which was now lined from the floor to the ceiling with an assortment of hanging clothes.

"What's this?" Abby asked as she rotated 360 degrees to take in the sight.

"Clothes."

"I can see that. Whose clothes?"

"Yours and mine," he said, as a matter of fact.

"What?" Abby was confused.

"I asked Henri to help us get out of these dirty things we've been wearing. I had him pick up a few suits and things for me, but I wasn't sure what you'd want, so he brought a few of everything."

"He brought my size?"

"Henri runs one of the most renowned hotels in the world. This is old hat for him."

"Why do I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman?"

Carter laughed and headed out of the dressing room. She caught up with him and took his hand and they walked into the living room.

"Hey," she said to slow him down. "Is this what you want to spend your money on?"

"On you? Ummm . . ." He pretended to think. "Yeah, yeah it is," he concluded.

"Carter—"

In the living room, he tugged her onto the couch and put his arm around her.

"Yes, this is what I want," he said, caressing her shoulder. "But I have thought about some other things I want to do."

"Like what?" she asked as she kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her body.

"I want to buy some equipment for the hospital in Kisangani."

"Sounds good," she said.

"I want make sure all the kids in that refugee camp are inoculated."

"I like it."

"And I want to buy this." He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a photo torn from a magazine.

"It's a plane," she said as she examined the picture of the twin-engine Cessna.

She looked up at him. "Don't tell me this is a picture of your new girlfriend," she said recalling a conversation with her brother Eric.

"What?"

"Never mind . . . What is this?"

"I found this picture during my flight. It's the plane I want to buy for Mr. Nyobi."

"You want to buy him a plane?"

"He really helped me, Abby." He touched her hair. "He helped me . . . see things."

"Sounds like a good man."

"A very good man."

"So what's the problem?" she said as she handed back the clipping.

"My father." He took his arm from around her and frowned. "I wasn't a very good sport when I learned Gamma wanted me to run the Foundation. She should have given the responsibility to Dad."

"Maybe . . ." Abby thought, "Maybe you'd feel better doing it with him?"

"Dad and I? Together?"

"Yes—call him."

"You think he'd work with me?"

"I'm sure he would. He was born to do that work, John. He'll be happy you called him."

He mulled over her words.

"Okay," Carter said with relief in his voice. "Why don't you dress for dinner in the meantime."

"Dinner?"

"We have reservations at Tour d'Argent."

"Tour d'Ar—what?" Abby tried to mimic.

"When I was a kid, it was the place to go for pressed duck."

"Pressed duck?"

"You'll love it. You can see the whole city from the rooftop."

"Is it pressed before it's cooked or after?"

"Trust me." He kissed her cheek. "Go get ready."

"DAD, IT'S JOHN . . . "

Abby could hear Carter on the phone in the living room as she removed her clothes in the bedroom to shower for the second time that day.

"You were? Oh, well you couldn't reach me because I'm in Paris . . . Yes, with Abby . . . No, nothing like that—not yet, anyway . . . We've been in Africa . . . Yeah, the Alliance . . . Well, I was home for a day but a friend of ours got in trouble, and I went back . . . No, everything's okay—we're on our way home."

When she was completely naked she stepped into the marble bathroom and skipped the shower. Instead, she turned on the water in the large, old-fashioned footed bathtub and decided a bath was just what she needed.

"Dad, look, I'd like to talk to you about the Foundation . . . I have some ideas, and I want us to work on them together . . . Yes, together . . . Great . . ."

Abby sank into the deep tub and poured in some scented crystals she found on the marble counter, while the Carter men made peace across the Atlantic. She closed her eyes and floated serenely in the high, warm water. The sound of his voice, happy and calm just a room away, made her comfortable and relaxed. All the events of the last few months started to disappear, and all the events of the last few days started to turn into memories. She was happy to see them go—all but one. She didn't ever want to forget the feeling of soft baby skin next to her bare shoulder, and tiny baby breaths near her neck, and little infant fingers surrounding her thumb.

She didn't ever want to forget Colette.

She looked down at her own body and felt that spot below her belly button and remembered secrets about herself that she had yet to share. Suddenly, the darkness Abby always carried with her returned. She submerged herself fully in the water to wash away the thoughts that interrupted her peace.

She came up for a breath, but left her ears beneath the water and listened to the sound of her own breathing for several minutes until the quiet rhythm was broken by Carter's laughter.

"Dad, I like that idea! We'll set it up as soon as I get home." He sounded relaxed and comfortable, and his mood made her smile again. She stood from the tub, toweled off, and walked naked from the bathroom across the plush carpeting of the bedroom to the dressing room to pick from the array of couture selected by Henri.

Hanging from every inch of the large room were dresses, skirts, pants, and shirts—fancy and casual. Shoes of every style lined the walls. She had never seen so many clothes outside of a store.

Abby picked up a piece of lace from a small table and realized it was a brassiere.

"He brought me bras?" she said out loud and crossed her arms at the thought of Henri examining her breasts for her size.

She grabbed a pair of black pants and a black knit shirt with a white collar. She selected a black lace bra, matching underpants, and black sandals with a slight heal. She picked them up and brought them over by the full-length mirror.

That's when she saw it.

A dress—a ballgown really. It was strapless and white with the palest hint of lavender. It had a pretty sweetheart neck and a tightly fitted bodice with a ribbon that tied at the side of the waist. At the hips, the dress opened to a beautiful full skirt made of layers of tulle and silk. It was a dress for someone special, a movie star, a princess.

Abby stared at the gown and surprised herself by how much she wanted to try it on. She dismissed the notion, thinking the style was more suited to a debutante than a grown woman who'd been married and divorced already. But Abby couldn't take her eyes off the dress. It called to her, and the little girl inside her was awakened.

She walked out into the bedroom and leaned out the heavy double doors and peeked into the living room and saw Carter talking happily to his father. She closed the bedroom doors and went back to the dressing room and closed those doors behind her also. She tied back her wet hair into a sleek chignon and managed to clip it neatly with her one metal clip. Then she carefully removed the gown from its hanger, pulled it over her head, and struggled to zip it from behind. She walked to the mirror with closed eyes, and when she opened them, she recognized her face but nothing else. She touched her bare shoulders and put her hand flat against her stomach.

The dress was so pretty.

She felt pretty.

She was pretty.

And her eyes grew wet, and she realized it was all because she was not used to the feeling of silk and tulle and organza . . . and beauty.

When the double doors of the dressing room flew open, Abby was startled.

"Abby, hey, I called my—"

"Carter, DON'T COME IN!" she shouted.

But it was too late. She grabbed for something to cover herself and could only reach a tiny pink scarf.

If ever he understood the word "breathtaking" it was at that moment because truly all the breath fled from his body at the sight of her in the princess ballgown. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He just stared at the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

"Doesn't anybody knock anymore?" she said. She tossed aside the scarf, resigned to the fact that she'd been discovered.

His eyes were wide and his breathing labored. His mouth was open as if he were trying to speak, but no words came out.

"What's wrong? Did I leave a tag on?" she said.

He swallowed hard and finally spoke. Well, he tried.

"You . . . wow . . . that dress . . . you're . . . whew."

He walked over to her.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"I look like I'm going to the prom."

"I mean it, you're . . . gorgeous." His eyes traveled up and down the length of her.

"Everybody looks nice in a $5000 dress."

"Abby, stop it." He wasn't going to let her off that easily. His brought his hand up to her face and caressed her cheek as the other glided up and down her waist. And he kissed her soft, full lips. His kiss pushed aside her nerves, and she slid her arms up to his shoulders. But when his kiss became more urgent, she pulled away.

"Not yet, okay?" she said and took a step back. "So what did you come in to tell me?"

He forced himself to catch his breath and regain his senses.

"My father said he heard my mother is in Paris," he said. "He thought maybe I should call her. So I did."

"Is she here at the Crillon?"

"No. She hasn't come here for years—didn't want to run into Gamma," he laughed. "She wasn't in, but I told her to call my cell phone."

"Do you want her to join us for dinner?"

"Not really." He smiled but looked a little pained. "I'm sure she's busy with something or other anyway."

"I'm sure she'll want to see you—how often are you in Paris?"

"Look at the time," he said to change the subject. "It's already 9:30. I'll call to see if they have a late seating at 10:30. I'd better shower and dress."

"Undo this zipper please?" She turned her back to him with her hands on her hips.

He stared at the back of the dress.

"Nope. Keep it on a while, okay?"

"John—"

"Please?"

She looked skeptical, but she conceded. "Okay, just until we're ready to go."

Carter tugged off his shirt and she sneaked a peek at the muscles on his back as he headed for the bathroom. When she heard him turn on the water in the shower, she stepped out onto the terrace to enjoy the beauty of an evening in Paris. She stood at the terrace wall and looked out over the courtyard. The party for which Abby watched preparations earlier was now well under way. A woman in a magnificent white gown and an enormous, multi-tier cake gave away that the party was indeed a wedding.

She watched as people enjoyed cocktails and meals set before them by handsome waiters in bow ties and tails. All the women were dressed in formal full-length gowns and the men wore stately black tuxedos. A photographer snapped photos of the bride with her parents and the groom with his. Another fixed his lens on a slender little flower girl with short brown hair in a long pink satin dress. She danced awkwardly with a tall, brown-eyed boy who looked dashing in a black tuxedo. Abby smiled.

She watched the reception for a long time from her perch at the edge of the terrace, just two stories above them but a world apart in her mind.

When the clock struck the hour, a small orchestra replaced the recorded music over the loudspeaker. The beautiful sound of strings and woodwinds and brass swam through the air to Abby's ears and sent shivers down her spine. The dance floor filled with couples, including the bride in her full, organza gown and veil and the groom in his tails.

"What's going on?" Carter said.

Abby turned around to see him showered, hair clean and dried, his face shaved perfectly. His tall, strong body was attired in a black tuxedo, and he fussed with the cuffs of his shirt as he approached her. The sight of him made her stomach tingle, and she had the urge to run her hands over his arms and shoulders.

"You clean up nicely." Abby smiled at him with a twinkle in her eye, and he instinctively touched his tie and smoothed his hair.

"What's down there?" he inquired again.

He looked over her shoulder at the courtyard below.

"That party turned out to be a wedding."

They watched together for a while as couples danced and others ate. Soon the dance floor emptied but for the bride and groom, and the orchestra broke into a lazy, jazzy version of "When I Fall in Love."

Abby shivered as a cool breeze brushed over her bare shoulders.

"Cold?" he asked. He put his hands on her skin, and she quivered from his touch. He pulled her back toward him and wrapped his warm arms around her from behind.

"What are you thinking about?" he said close to her ear.

She was thinking how much she missed being near him. She was thinking how special she felt being alone with him in Paris—she in a beautiful gown and he in his handsome tuxedo. She thought how she would die if he moved one inch away from her right then.

But her answer was, "I'm wondering . . . do you think there's chocolate in that cake?"

She couldn't see him smiling at her from behind, but . . . ohhh . . . she could feel when he leaned down and softly put his lips on her earlobe. She closed her eyes and leaned against him as the elegant couple danced in the courtyard below to beautiful music.

Envy coursed through Carter's veins as he watched the man in black spin his smiling bride. He held Abby tighter and could not resist whispering in her ear.

"Dance with me."

He stepped away and reached for her hand and turned her toward him.

"Carter—"

"Come on, dance with me."

"No, it's silly," she said and sidestepped to get around him. But he stepped in front of her.

"Why not? We've danced before, remember?"

Remember? Could she ever forget moving across the dance floor of the Natural History Museum in his arms? Could she forget the way he looked at her? The way she tried so hard to avoid his eyes for fear he'd see how wonderful he made her feel?

"I don't think I remember how." She sidestepped again.

He sidestepped to block her once more. "It's okay, I do."

"John—" She tried to step around him once again, and for a final time, he stepped in front of her.

"Come on, we're practically dancing already."

He slipped his arm around her waist.

"Come on," he said. "I got you."

He took her in his arms and began slowly to move her around the terrace in time with the music below. Soon she relaxed against him as the orchestra played. Carter led her body skillfully and smoothly, and she gladly followed. The skirt of her beautiful gown made a slight swishing noise as they moved, and the bodice left her shoulders, arms, and the top of her breasts free for him to admire. When he wasn't looking in her soft brown eyes, he stole glances at her naked skin and imagined touching it. And as the dance progressed, he imagined kissing her neck and tasting her skin. He noticed that thin strands of her upswept hair slipped from her barrette and down to her shoulders as they danced. It made her look even more beautiful.

Carter could not stop looking at her, and Abby stared back at him and fell deeply into his brown eyes. With every turn she leaned closer to him until they no longer danced with formal outstretched arms. Instead, Abby gently snuggled close to him, and soon her cheek rested against his heart. Carter pressed their clasped hands against his chest, and his chin and lips lightly brushed against her hair. They moved so slowly on the slate floor of the terrace. Soon she closed her eyes, the orchestra music swelled, and they stepped in perfect rhythm. She pressed her nose against his chest and breathed slowly. It was happening—Abby was beginning to understand what it meant to be . . . happy.

Carter could feel nothing except her body pressing against him. He thought it impossible to feel so strongly about another person. But Abby meant everything to him, and he needed to show her.

As the music played, Carter let go of Abby's hand and tilted her chin up with his fingertips. He kissed her, softly and slowly. She slipped her arms around his neck, and he wrapped his hands around her waist, dancing and kissing the whole time.

Before long, they forgot to dance, and they remained caught in a long, deep kiss. The music stopped, and there they stood in the cool breeze with the dark open sky above, the Eiffel tower at the edge of their view, his arms around her bare skin, their eyes closed, and their two mouths moving slowly.

He was still holding her closely when he finally said the words. He simply peeled his lips from hers and spoke before she could even open her eyes. Her lips were still parted—still with the sensation of him on them—when he finally told her how he'd felt for more than three years . . .

"I love you," he said softly.

Her eyes opened.

Once spoken, he had the courage to say it again: "I'm in love with you."

Her eyes locked on his lips, and she kissed him again.

But he soon pulled them apart once more.

"Did you hear me, Abby? I said 'I love you.' "

"Yes, I heard you." She tilted her head and moved in for another kiss.

He pulled his mouth away before their lips could touch.

"How does that make you feel?"

She was unable to escape and slipped out of his arms. "You never said that to me before."

"I was scared to tell you."

She just looked at him, and all the reasons he feared to say it, started trickling back.

"Do you have anything you want to say to me?" he asked.

She stood silent.

But he knew.

"Can you help me take this dress off?" she said, avoiding his eyes. She started to reach behind to pull down the zipper.

Carter's lips tightened, his eyes hardened, and a pain started to rush over him beginning in his stomach. He exhaled without hiding his temper. He reached up, undid his bow tie, and jerked it from his neck.

She always disappointed him.

She saw his face. She knew what was happening. She couldn't help it.

"Please . . . can you help me?" Her voice rose and fell in a nervous quiver.

She grew frustrated and tried harder to reach the zipper. He stepped back and watched her.

"Please help me get this off!"

She was shouting, and he saw something in her eyes—a little girl struggling in dress too big.

"Abby—"

"It's not mine! It doesn't belong to me! I never should have put it on!"

He softened as he saw her shoulders and hands begin to shake. She flung open the glass door and entered the living room of their suite, and he followed.

"Abby, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just want to take off this stupid dress."

He approached her.

"What is it?"

"Nothing!"

"Abby, how do you feel about me? Why can't you say it?"

"Carter, please . . ."

"Tell me."

"Stop it!" He saw her wipe away a tear with her palm though she tried to hide it.

"Abby, if you don't feel the same way . . . you have to tell me because I'm in too deep."

"That's not it!"

"Then why can't you say it?"

"Because if I say it—"

"What? What are you afraid of?" He was frustrated and yelling at her.

"Please, Carter, don't do this!" A tear fell again, and she couldn't catch it in time, and so others tried to escape, too.

"Abby, help me understand—please! What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid—"

"What?" He took a step toward her.

"I'm afraid, if I say it . . . I'll . . . I'll . . . wake up."

He stopped. He stared. He didn't know what to say. Suddenly, she looked like a little girl to him. He approached her slowly, his heart an open well of pity for her.

She turned away from him and reached behind and struggled to get at her zipper.

"Oh, God, no please . . . don't make this any harder."

He reached to take her in his arms, but she jerked away from him.

"You don't understand!" she cried. "People like me don't have lives like this."

"Don't be afraid."

"Carter—"

"There's nothing to worry about. You know how I feel about you. Abby—I need to hear it."

"John, stop it!"

"It's not fair to me. Abby . . . please."

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

The sound came from the pocket in his jacket.

Abby looked at him and all the reasons she needed him swept across her mind: The way he danced with her at the museum . . . accompanied her to get Maggie . . . worried about her drinking . . . followed her to Nebraska for Eric . . . kissed her . . . rescued her . . . loved her.

Yet she said: "I'm sorry. I can't."

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

It was too risky for her.

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

And there they stood unable to get past the voices of the children inside them: He wanted to soothe his pain with love; she feared that love would cause her pain.

And there they stood.

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

He looked at her one last time and then turned his back. He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone.

"Hello?"

It was a not-so-familiar voice.

"Hi Mom, how are you? . . . Yeah, just for the night . . . No, I'm with Abby . . . Abby! . . . I thought maybe we could . . . Sure, it's late . . . How about coming with us for bite? . . . Late-night coffee? . . . What about breakfast? . . . Well, do you have five minutes? We can stop off at your hotel on the way to the air— . . . uh huh . . . yeah, I understand . . . Sure, when you're in Chicago next . . . Bye."

Carter stood with his back to her and closed phone against his palm. He struggled to control his disappointment—and not to cry like lonely boys do.

Abby watched his back and shoulders and how they sunk slightly when he was in pain. She knew she was the cause—at least partly. She was hurting him, and she didn't know how to stop.

"Fine, Mom." He said to the closed phone.

He turned and saw her still standing there. Their eyes met.

"John—"

But he walked past her: "Fine, Abby"

He walked out on the terrace again and dropped his cell phone on the outdoor table. He slumped on a bench facing the Parisian cityscape.

She watched him for a long time from her spot in the living room. It hurt her to see him in pain. She pretended she was angry at his mother, but she knew she was just as much to blame. She touched her waist and realized she was still wearing the ballgown. She yearned to rewind the evening to their dance.

It was approaching midnight, when she realized she had spent the better part of an hour in silence watching him from inside. She was hungry and tired but couldn't imagine ever eating or sleeping again.

Abby took a deep breath and walked toward the window-paned door.

Carter felt her with him, and he spoke first without turning to look at her.

"Do you need something?"

"No."

"Mind if I have some time to myself?"

"Are you okay?"

"I'll be in soon."

"John—"

"My mother—" he interrupted. He was filled with anger and disappointment but could not resist sharing it with her—if only to let her know that she compounded his pain. "My mother keeps running. I remind her—even after all these years."

"She's afraid," Abby offered.

"She can't stand to look at me."

"That's not true. She feels like she failed one of her sons. Maybe she thinks she doesn't . . . deserve you."

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, firmly ending the discussion he began. He remained with his back to her. "Did you say you wanted something?"

"I want you to understand—"

"I understand."

"No, you don't."

"Can you—" he shouted harshly but tried to calm himself. "Can you just leave me alone please?" He dropped his forehead into his hands.

She clasped her arms around her body—not so much against the chill in the air, but from the chill she caused herself. She took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully to keep her lips from quivering. And she spoke.

She did it for him.

"When I was married to Richard . . ." she began, "we hardly spent any time together. He was busy with school; I was busy working in OB. He didn't need me to be a wife—I didn't have time to be anyway. I was always working because school for him was expensive and there was rent and food. He had girlfriends so he didn't need me for . . . sex." She laughed nervously.

Carter lifted his head, but she still talked to the back of it.

"One day, I got a call that my mother bottomed out. It was Oklahoma—Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. I went to get her—myself. Richard had classes—he wouldn't have come with me anyway. He did a couple of times but he . . . he got sick of it."

Carter leaned back in the bench and let her words penetrate.

"I drove her all the way back. I got her on a psych hold for the night at Mercy, and I went home. I was exhausted from the drive. She didn't want to stay in the car—I drove the whole way with her head hanging out the window like a cocker spaniel."

Carter nodded his head slowly remembering their own experience.

"When I got to our apartment, Richard was there. I was surprised . . . and I was glad because—"

She started to tremble, and Carter could hear her voice shake. He turned his head slightly in her direction. The sound of her sadness was like a call to him.

"—I was glad because I needed somebody. I didn't want to be alone." He could hear from her voice again that she started to cry but was trying to hide it.

"That night we were together, I . . . got . . . pregnant."

Pregnant. The word shocked him, and his own shield started to melt away. The thought of her carrying a baby startled him, and Carter had to fight the instinct to run to her. A myriad of emotions welled up in him—jealousy, rivalry, worry, and fear—and things began to spin a little. He turned to see her face.

"No," she said motioning with her hands. "No, don't look at me." He looked away again, though even with his quick glance he could see her eyes were wet. "Please don't look at me."

"I was terrified," she continued. "The night I found out, I waited up to tell Richard, but he never came home. And the next night, he didn't either, and by the third night, I decided not to tell him and just . . ." Her voiced trailed off.

"Just what?" Carter asked, but he already knew the answer.

"I ended it one day—on my lunch hour. I called in sick from the clinic and told them I ate some bad egg salad or something and that I wasn't coming back that day."

"I ended it . . ." He let her words sink in.

"I couldn't do it," she explained, knowing he was processing the information and terrified of the results. "I was so scared. I was afraid to end up like my mother . . . or have a baby that ended up like my mother . . . I was afraid to raise a child all alone with a cheating husband who was never there."

He stood up and faced her despite her protests. Emotions collided in him—in a way, he felt bad for Richard, and yet he loathed him for allowing his own wife to feel so alone when she needed him most.

"You don't want me to love you, John. I've disappointed a lot of people."

"I don't think that's what you're afraid of."

"What?"

He came closer to her. "I think you're afraid that people will disappoint you . . ."

She looked at him.

" . . . Because they have—I have."

"No—"

"Yes. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I walked away from you—all those times."

She was afraid to speak and reveal anymore—as it was, he could see inside her.

He went on: "When something good happens—when something or someone comes along that makes you happy—you can't enjoy it because you're just waiting for someone to take it away."

"No, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are. But I'm not going to, Abby. Didn't you hear me say 'I love you'? What do you think when I say that?"

She looked at him with innocent, round eyes—the eyes of a scared seven-year-old.

"I think . . . why?"

He put his hands on the side of her face. "Because you're smart and beautiful—and you care about people," he said—pleaded, actually. "And I want you to care about me."

He added in a choked whisper, "Please?"

He looked at her with innocent, round eyes—the eyes of a scared eleven-year-old.

She stood motionless—beautiful in her fancy dress, but empty like a doll.

Hopelessness overwhelmed him. He released his hands from her, turned, and walked to the wall of the terrace in time to see the party ending in the courtyard below.

"Take whatever you want from the dressing room," he said as he watched them clean up below. "We'll leave in the morning."

Midnight.

Carter wore his sadness like a suit. She could see it in all the muscles of his frame. She hurt him—again—and badly. And when he hurt, so did she, and the pain stuck in her chest.

Abby walked over to him and stood behind him. She swallowed hard, held on tight, and closed her eyes. She slipped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his back. And in her mind, she waited for her carriage to turn back into a pumpkin and kissed this life good-bye.

She did it for him.

"I . . . love you."

She felt his body tremble—or was it hers? She said it again.

"I love you."

He turned around and she held him by the waist with her head now pressed against his chest and her face hidden.

"Oh, God . . . I'm so in love with you."

She was so frightened. He could feel it in her body. On the other hand, he started feeling like he was . . . floating. For three years he heard those words only in dreams.

"Don't be scared," he said both arms now around her and caressing her bare shoulders.

"Abby, look at me."

She tilted her head toward him, but her eyes remained closed.

If it weren't so moving, he would have laughed: She looked so childlike as she struggled to protect herself with the last thing she could think of.

"Open your eyes."

She did—slowly—like a newborn acclimating to the light.

"See, it's real."

She rested her head against his shoulder and cried with relief and exhaustion.

He placed a kiss on her forehead and whispered, "It's okay, baby," with his lips against her skin, which made his first-ever love name for her—"Baby"—feel like two kisses more.

After several minutes of quiet closeness—several minutes of her leaning against him with his fingertips stroking her bare back—she lifted her head. "I'm hungry," she announced, sniffling up her emotions. "Can we get out of these clothes and get something to eat?"

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Sure—but we'll have to pass on Tour D'Argent and find a late-night bistro or something. No pressed duck."

"Sounded painful anyway," she said. He held open the glass door for her and followed her back into the suite.

Never—not even for a moment—did they notice the eyes on them from three floors above.

ABBY AND CARTER changed into more casual selections from Henri's collection and went for a late dinner. She donned camel-color pants and a black, silk, button-down blouse. She took down her hair, brushed it smooth, put on just a hint of mascara and lipstick. Carter wore dark brown pants and a tan pullover that was rugged yet casual with his slightly mussed hair.

Carter remembered the Eiffel Tower housed a lovely formal restaurant and a less-formal brasserie that served late. A taxi ride later and they were standing atop the iconic edifice of Paris. It turned out the kitchen of the brasserie was only open until 12:30, and as they arrived, the lights were dimmed and the piped-in music faded down in a sad baritone.

"Oh, you're kidding!" Abby said. "I'm starving." She looked at him. "Do you think they put chocolates on our pillow back at the hotel?"

"I'll be right back," Carter said and disappeared into the pitch black of the restaurant.

Moments later, the foyer in which she stood was bright again, the lights went on over the bar and tables, and the music rose up.

Carter emerged from behind two swinging doors and was followed by a man in a business suit with a towel over his arm.

"Mademoiselle," the man said to Abby with a bow.

"Good evening," Abby said with a side glance to Carter.

"Monsieur, please follow me."

Carter offered Abby his arm, and they followed the man to a corner table with a stupendous view of Paris.

"I'll be right back," the man said once they were seated.

"Merci," Carter said. "That's the owner. He's a very nice guy," Carter said to Abby once he walked away.

"Carter, I thought they were closing," Abby said. She leaned toward him across the table, fearing her voice would carry in the otherwise empty restaurant.

"They were," Carter said, rubbing his hands together and avoiding her gaze.

"But?" Abby said, trying to meet his eyes.

He looked at her and smiled mischievously. "They changed their minds."

Abby smiled and looked out the window. She knew he changed their minds, and as much as she hated to admit it, it gave her unforgettable thrill.

Though anything in the kitchen was at their disposal, they simply picked at some salads, shared a tray of fresh oysters, and downed refreshing cranberry juice. They talked about County and how the ER could use another fiber-optic intubation kit. They discussed her car and its chronic transmission problems. And they lamented the loss of Doc Magoo's to the horrible fire. All the while, they ate and smiled and touched hands and feet.

When they were finished, they went into the kitchen together to thank the owner, who had fallen asleep with his head on a table, and the chef, who sat on a stool next to him, snoring, with his head on his boss's shoulder.

"I SHOULD BE exhausted, but I'm not," Carter observed downstairs at the base of the enormous golden tower.

"Me neither," Abby agreed.

"Come on, let's go for a walk," Carter suggested.

"It's the middle of the night," Abby countered. The tower burned brightly, but the streets beneath were dark and made her a little nervous.

"It's okay—just for little while," Carter said and took her hand.

They headed along the grass of the landscaped mall that sat before the tower. They heard rustling noises as they entered.

"What was that?" Abby asked.

"What was what?"

"That noise."

"The trees in the wind—or a squirrel, I suppose. Don't be jittery."

She was reluctant to go into the park any farther, so she headed for a stone wall where the view of the tower above was massive and brilliant.

"It's so beautiful," Abby said of the tower above as she turned and walked backward the last few steps toward the wall.

He stopped and took her face in his hands, "So are you," he said.

She reached up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She closed her eyes and parted her lips just the perfect distance to match his, and they kissed.

"Say it again," he requested as he peeled his lips away. He couldn't get enough of this Abby, with whom he rendezvoused every day for the past three years—in his dreams.

"I love you," she promised in a whisper. "I do."

"Remember those last two words," he said as he slipped her long hair away from her face. "You're going to need them."

"Are you proposing again?" She teased and put her bent elbows behind her on the stone wall and used them to push herself on top with a little hop. She sat up there as a mild cool breeze blew through her hair. There was a smile on her lips—and in her eyes.

"No, I'm not." He wouldn't propose without his great-grandmother's ring so he could slip it on her finger and make it all real for her.

Carter nervously picked up a stone and threw it like a little basketball into a wire waste receptacle.

"If I were proposing, you'd know it," he said as he scoured the ground for another stone, "because I'd start by telling you that I've wanted you since I saw you at my first AA meeting."

"How romantic," she replied from her perch on the wall.

"And I'd tell you how for a year I had dreams that Luka was being deported," he said as he tossed another stone that landed outside the basket.

"Nice—this is the man you followed to the Congo."

He smiled, but it disappeared as he said, "And I'd tell you what a jerk I was after you two broke up . . ." He threw the remaining rock in his hand like a bullet, and it landed inside the basket.

" . . . and how scared I was when I finally kissed you."

"Scared?" she asked.

"Scared that you wouldn't want me to."

"I wanted you to."

He walked over to a stately maple tree with heavy, low-hanging branches and pulled off a large leaf from which a butterfly hung to rest for the long, dewy night. He lifted the butterfly, and though its closed wings hid its colors, Carter could see how truly beautiful it was. The butterfly didn't try to fly away from him, but rather he set it down on a stone, and it rested peacefully just where he could see it.

"And if I were proposing . . ." he said as he walked over to her. "I'd have my great-grandmother's ring."

Carter took the leaf on which the butterfly sat and peeled away everything but the core stem and curled it into a circle and tied it.

He walked over and picked up her hand, "And I'd slip the ring on your finger."

He felt his throat tighten and his face get warm.

"And if I were really proposing," he said as he looked in her eyes, his fingers caressing hers nervously, "I'd tell you that I love you, and I'd ask you to be my wife because . . . you are already my family."

She pulled her hands away and slipped them around his neck.

Carter said to her, "If I were proposing, promise me you'd say 'yes.' "

"If you were proposing," she whispered, " I would say 'yes.' "

She stroked his face with her fingertips, and when they neared his mouth, he kissed them.

Behind them the Eiffel Tower glowed brightly with thousands of lights that cut right through the thick darkness that surrounded it.

And so did Carter.

And so did Abby.

But not their companion, who watched them closely, from the other side of the green.

IN THE OPULENT grand bedroom of their suite at the Hotel de Crillon, Carter kicked off his shoes and removed the decorative pillows from the enormous bed. He pulled back the spread, revealing beautiful pale gold sheets lightly patterned in red and black. He pulled off his shirt and socks, hopped on the bed, rested on his side with his head in his hand as he watched Abby.

She brushed her hair and chatted about how beautiful Paris was and what she needed to do when she got home. She wondered how she was going to explain to Weaver about all the time she'd been gone. When he told her not to worry, she countered that he didn't have it so hard because he didn't need the money.

He listened to her, commenting randomly when she stopped long enough to take a breath. As she ranted, he patted the empty place next to him on the bed. She kicked off her shoes and lay next to him propped up on her elbow. Words still dribbled rapidly out of her mouth until he placed his index finger on her lips to hush her: "Shhhhhhhhhhh."

When he was sure he had her attention, he slid closer and kissed her and whispered, "I love you" right next to her mouth. He kissed her again with soft lips while his hand went to her black silk blouse and started to undo the buttons. He clumsily tugged at one and tore the silk buttonhole.

"That's a brand-new blouse," she reminded him.

"I'll buy you another one."

She nudged his hand away.

"Let me before I have to get on the plane tomorrow in my underwear."

And as she opened her blouse one button at a time, pretty soft lavender cloth came into view. He followed with his eyes until he was also greeted by a tiny, white, satin butterfly. He slid closer and smiled at her, recognizing the butterfly underwear that meant so much. The look on his face made her smile, and she let the silk blouse slide down her arms and then tossed it over onto a chair.

Carter reached down and kissed the butterfly and then put his lips on the delicate spot just above it. Then he traced the tiny satin creature with his index finger as she watched. He let his fingertip drift over the rise of her breast and slip beneath the satin of the cup. She lay back and put her arms around him. Soon they were lost in each other: Two friends in love.

The late hour made everything seem slow, but that only added to the closeness they had been missing for so long. Abby was tired and simply closed her eyes and enjoyed the feeling of him kissing her and touching her—until for a moment there was no kiss and no touch.

She opened her eyes.

He was staring at her.

"What?" she said.

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"Are you okay?"

He nodded but never took his eyes off her.

"What is it?"

His voice was just a whisper. "I can't explain . . . how you make me feel."

She touched his face. "You don't have to."

Because she knew. She felt it, too.

Carter's stare was so intense that Abby had to force herself to hold his gaze—but her eyes had other plans. They kept drifting down to his lips, signaling him to kiss her some more.

He did, and for a long while, nothing could be heard in their room except for breathing . . . and kissing . . . and whispering. All the tiny sounds were blended together. But if you listened closely, you could make out the whispers, spoken in tandem over and over again:

"I love you" . . . "I love you, too."

"You're so beautiful" . . . "I love how you feel."

"I need you" . . . "Do that again."

Sometime later, when they were as close as two people can be, his head buried in her neck and hair, he heard sniffling and felt trembling. When he moved to see her face, the lashes of her closed eyes were wet, her nose was red, and her lips were quivering.

He went still and spoke to her: "Hey, what is it?"

"Nothing." She turned her head away quickly.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No."

He balanced on his elbows and took her face in his hands and swept away her tears with his thumbs.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just that I—"

She looked at him, and he looked back with deep love and genuine concern.

"—missed you."

He smiled as he traced her pouting lips with his thumb and then leaned down to kiss her. He held his mouth on hers until her quivering lip stilled.

"I'm sorry—for everything," she said when he released her mouth.

"Me, too. But it's over. Now I just want you to be with me."

"I am—"

"No, you're not—you're worrying. Your head is somewhere else. We're together now. Everything's going to be okay. Understand that."

"I'm trying—"

"I don't want you to think about anything except this moment—right now. Forget everything, just . . . be with me."

Once he felt her tension wane, he moved his lips slowly over hers, kissing her again and again, whispering each time "I love you" until her worries were abandoned and were replaced once again by passion.

She missed this feeling that she belonged with someone and her body knew him. He missed the closeness that he only felt when he held her like this. And soon, everything centered at the spot where they met. He watched her face and then closed his eyes, and they clung to each other.

Deep breaths later, he rested on his pillow. She slid close to him, tucked her head near his ears, and whispered, "I love you."

And for the first time since he'd known her, he closed his eyes and confidently responded, "I know."

AFTER ONLY AN hour of sleep, Carter's eyes opened and fell upon the tip of Abby's sleeping nose, which he promptly kissed. He played with her hair for a few minutes and then slowly got up from the bed. He slipped on his pants and stepped outside through the double glass doors that opened onto the same enormous terrace reached through the living room doors. He surveyed the Parisian landscape—there was beauty in every direction. He closed his eyes against the gentle wind and breathed in happiness.

It didn't take long for a strange chill to spread through Carter, but it was not caused by the crisp breeze.

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

The sound of his cell phone startled him. Carter picked it up from the nearby table, looked at the tiny display, and wondered who would be calling in the wee hours of the morning. He didn't recognize the number—only that it looked local to Paris.

Brrring. Brrrrriiing.

"Hello?" he answered.

"It's lonely in here," a raspy female voice whispered.

Carter turned around and looked through the paned doors into the dark bedroom. He saw Abby up on her knees on the giant bed. She wore a large bedsheet around her arms like a stole, revealing her delicate cleavage. Tucked under her chin was the hotel phone from the nightstand.

Abby's long, tussled hair flowed down on one side of her neck and her lids were still heavy with sleep. The gold bed sheet flowed lightly beneath her bare shoulders and just managed to cover her breasts. Her kitten-ish pose made Carter twitch, and he considered joining her and enjoying her body all over again, but there would be time for that later.

"Come out here," he said into the phone.

She joined him, the gold sheet now wrapped beneath her arms like a strapless dress. She held it closed with her right hand and slipped her left hand around his waist as he surveyed Paris.

"Can't sleep?" she asked.

"Don't want to. But you should go back to bed—"

She shook her head and led him over to the long swing that sat near the far end of the terrace. It had a long yellow and white cushion that would have sat several people. So when Carter stretched out across the length of it, he was fairly comfortable. Abby lay in front of him on the swing, and he wrapped his arms around her.

The cool middle-of-the-night air felt sensual against her body, and the smell of his skin next to her made her want to get closer. She reached down to the slate floor of the terrace and gave a little push, and the swing began to rock. She lay against him, swinging gently to and fro, the beauty of Paris around them. It was all so beautiful. She was missing only one thing.

"John?"

He touched her hair and answered her. "Hmmm?"

"Tell me about the woman who came for Colette."

"She was tall," Carter recalled and stroked her cheek as he spoke. "Her features were so . . . interesting, so attractive. I think she resembled the baby around the cheeks and chin."

Abby smiled at the memory of the pretty newborn's face.

"How come she never came for her before?"

"She lives in a refugee camp and has four kids—and AIDS."

Abby nodded sadly.

Carter added, "I told her about you and the baby."

"You did?"

He nodded, and she seemed pleased despite the web of moisture that accumulated at the base of her lashes.

"She was so beautiful . . ." Abby observed one last time.

He kissed her head, and she snuggled closer to his bare chest. They lay still for a while and enjoyed the cool night air on their skin and the gentle rocking of the swing.

"We'll have to find a doctor to remove those stitches," Abby said as she traced the line of black threads on his chest. The skin no longer showed red edges and appeared to be healing nicely.

"How about the doctor that put them in?"

"Doctor?" She looked away.

"You never talk about it anymore."

"About . . . ?"

"About being a doctor."

"I'm happy as a nurse."

"Happy? Or it's just easier."

"Does my job look easy to you?"

"Your job's not easy—avoiding what you really want is."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

Yes, she was.

"You don't think about med school anymore?" he asked.

"I don't know how many of you doctors I really want to hang around with," she said with a smile, but something in her face grew dark. "Some of you aren't very good company."

He saw it. He didn't see it all evening, but he saw it then. She was referring to Albrecht.

"He touched you, didn't he?"

"I'm okay, really."

He slid down so his face was closer.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Carter, come on."

"Did he?"

"Just my pride."

He ran his hands over the sheet where it outlined her breasts and hips. She could see his eyes picturing Albrecht's unwanted touch.

"John," she said as she touched his face. The incident was over for her. She was more worried about him. "I'm okay."

"I feel like I have to do something."

"Make me forget," she said near his ear.

He stared back at her rich brown eyes, noticing how they squint when she smiled. His eyes drifted to her lips, and he aimed for them, kissing her softly. But a soft kiss was never enough for him when she was this close. He reached his hand over her and balanced himself from above to kiss her more intensely.

He stopped for a breath and lay by her side again. "How do you feel now?"

Nothing ever bothers me when you're kissing me, she thought.

"Fine," is what she said. However, Abby noticed that for the first time, the words in her mind and in her heart felt so close to her lips. Suddenly she wanted—no, needed—to tell him how she felt.

"Nothing ever bothers me when you're kissing me." She said it—and Carter looked so happy.

"Then I'll never stop kissing you." And for several long minutes more, he didn't.

Soon his hand instinctively slipped under the sheet she wore, and his fingertips played where his eyes had just gazed.

That is, until he felt a strong chill go up his spine. From the corner of his eye he saw something . . . or someone . . . and removed his hand from her body and pulled the sheet tightly around her.

"Do me a favor?" he said as he caressed her face.

She nodded.

"Go back inside, and I'll meet you in bed."

"Why? I kind of like it out here," she snuggled closer to him.

"Go in, okay? I'll be there in a minute."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He kissed her cheek. "I'll be there. Go ahead in."

"Carter . . ."

"Please, baby."

There was that word again.

They got up from the swing, and he opened the glass door. She passed through majestically, the golden sheet as her long-trained cape. He closed the door behind her and stood in the center of the terrace and stared at a window three stories above them. A pair of eyes stared back—through a lens.

He picked up a hotel phone that sat outside on the wrought iron table.

"Is Henri in the hotel? Francois? This is John Carter in . . . yes, that's right, the wardrobe."

He told them that someone with a room overlooking their terrace was intruding on their privacy.

"This is not a person just glancing out the window," Carter explained. "I could see a lens—a camera or binoculars. And he looked like he was writing."

Francois said he would go up to the room himself.

Carter closed the phone and went back inside. Abby was under the covers once again and had quickly fallen back to sleep. He stood over the bed and stared at her, reliving for an instant the arduous road they'd traveled to finally acknowledging their feelings. He touched a piece of her hair with his fingertip and leaned down to kiss her head.

"I love you," he whispered in her sleeping ear and kissed the baby-soft lobe. He sat on the bed next to her, unable to sleep with the memory of eyes watching them on the terrace.

Francois knocked delicately at the door to the suite. Carter stood to answer, and the motion of the bed woke Abby.

"Did you check out the room?" Carter asked a nervous Francois, who stood in the hallway several feet from the threshold of the suite.

"Oui, monsieur."

"Did you find anything?"

"Oui, monsieur."

"Well?"

Abby approached from behind Carter. She was barefoot and tying a red and gold sash around a black velvet robe from the dressing room.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Francois stepped aside. Behind him stood a man with a holstered gun. Instinct made Carter look to Abby and shepherd her back with his arm.

"Dr. Carter, I am Police Inspector Allaire. I've been watching you," he said in near-perfect English.

"Watching us?" Carter said with alarm in his voice.

"Why?" Abby said with annoyance in hers.

"Are you familiar with Dr. Damon Albrecht?"

"Yes, through the Alliance du Medi—"

"Dr. Albrecht was involved in an assault in his hotel suite yesterday afternoon."

"Oh," Carter said, "that's what this is about. I gave all our contact information in the States to the manager of Le Tremoille. But if you want to take a statement from Miss Lockhart, we can swing by the police station in the morning. It'll have to be early because we have a flight. But I don't understand why—"

"I don't think you do understand, Dr. Carter. Dr. Albrecht was the victim of a brutal assault yesterday. He was hospitalized in the Emergency Room for several hours."

"Albrecht was the victim?" Abby interjected indignantly.

"Dr. Carter, let me be clear," the detective said. "You are under arrest for the assault of Dr. Damon Albrecht."

"What?" Carter shouted.

"No!" Abby jumped in between.

"Dr. Carter you need to come with me," the Inspector said as he reached around Abby.

Carter nudged her aside and attempted to reason with the officer.

"Are you aware that when I arrived at Dr. Albrecht's hotel he lied about the whereabouts of my girlfriend and proceeded to assault her. He raped a woman in Africa—maybe a lot of women." Carter was shouting now.

"Take it up with the magistrate, Dr. Carter. Philippe!"

A uniformed officer appeared at the doorway of the suite and reached for Carter, spinning him around and placing handcuffs on his hands.

"Wait this is a misunderstanding—ouch!" Carter yelped at the tightened cuffs.

"Don't hurt him! John—" Abby was worried.

"Pardon. Pardon. I'm so sorry." Francois bowed nervously to Carter and then to Abby.

"Abby, my cell phone is on the table on the terrace. Call my father—it's on the speed dial—and ask him for Matthew Chapin's number."

"Matthew Chapin?"

"He's a lawyer."

"Wait, I want to go with you!"

"I'm sorry, mademoiselle," Allaire said. "You can meet him at the station."

He handed Abby a card.

Abby scratched at her head and mumbled to herself, "I don't believe this."

As they started down the hall with Carter, he turned to her. "Abby, it'll be okay. Just call and meet me at the station," he said as calmly as possible.

She looked angry and worried, and he didn't want to leave her that way.

"Honey, we'll straighten everything out. I'll probably be waiting outside by the time you get there," he smiled.

He said honey.

ABBY DRESSED QUICKLY in a pair of jeans from her own bag and a black scoop-neck pullover from the dressing room, courtesy of Henri. She shoved her wallet in a small black patent-leather bag she found the dressing room also. She made the call to Jack Carter, grabbed the card the officer gave her, and headed to the lobby. She ran into Francois, who apologized profusely for Carter's misfortune and helped her change a few American dollars for Euros to buy fare for the train. Francois showed her on the map how to get to the police station.

The streets were black as pitch in the pre-dawn hours, but the Paris Metro still carried a few travelers. Abby frequently referred to the scrap of paper on which Francois wrote directions to make sure she got off at the correct station. On the platform, she matched the letters on the paper to the ones on the sign. Satisfied she was at the right place she went up the stairs to the street to search for the police station where Carter was held.

The neighborhood of the police station seemed even darker than around the hotel. A large, garbage truck passed by, but once it left Abby's view, the street was still and quiet. She checked the number of a building near her and started walking toward the station's address. The only sounds were the crisp breeze and Abby's shoes on the pavement. She found her nerves getting the better of her and walked faster. A light up ahead marked her destination, and she had the strangest urge to run.

"Abby," she heard as she neared the light.

Relieved at the sound of her name, she turned around.

"I suppose I am the only person who doesn't call you that," Damon Albrecht said. His stood partially in the shadows of a street sign, his face half covered in darkness.

She inhaled sharply, surprised to see him.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"They called me down to identify my attacker—the man who sent me to the hospital last night."

"You look okay to me."

"Is that your professional opinion? Maybe I should show you the bruises on my chest and neck."

Abby took two steps backward, turned, and continued walking.

"Dr. Carter is in serious trouble, Abigail," he yelled after her.

Abby moved faster. Her hands were shaking, but she held them close to her body and walked with angry steps, covering her fear with rage.

"You're beautiful when you're angry," he called after her. Abby added distance between them as fast as she could.

THE INTERIOR OF the police station looked like any Abby had seen on television. An officer was seated at a reception desk, and behind him was a small sea of desks in a room painted pea green halfway up the walls and gray the rest of the way to the ceiling. Each desk had a metal chair where officers interviewed complainants or booked suspects. Along the walls were doors that Abby guessed were reserved for more senior officers.

"Mademoiselle?" At first Abby didn't realize the officer behind the reception desk was addressing her. "Mademoiselle?"

"Oh . . . uhhhh . . . Inspector Allaire, s'il vous plait?"

But before the officer could respond, she heard her name from the back of the room.

"Abby."

She saw Carter seated in a chair at the desk of the detective who visited their hotel room. Inspector Allaire was on the telephone when Abby approached. Carter's face lit up at the sight of her, but she saw tension and weariness in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" she asked, noting his hands were still cuffed behind him. Her instincts would not permit her to show him affection in public, but she fought them and kissed the top of his head.

He nodded. "Did you get the number?"

She reached into her pocket, "Your dad sounded worried. I told him you'll call him—"

"Dr. Albrecht," the detective said over Abby as Albrecht entered the station.

Albrecht walked over. Carter breathed heavier the closer he got. Inspector Allaire took a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Albrecht.

"Dr. Albrecht, if this is the man who assaulted you, please sign on the dotted line," he said in English so Carter would be aware of what was happening to him.

"Why aren't you arresting him?" Abby said referring to Albrecht. "Dr. Carter was just protecting me. Don't you want my statement?"

"Abigail, were you not in my room yesterday?" Albrecht asked Abby.

"Yes, but—"

"Mademoiselle, are you saying that Dr. Albrecht forced you to his room?" Inspector Allaire asked.

"No, I—"

"Were you not undressed?" Albrecht added.

"I was but—"

"Did Dr. Albrecht force you to remove your clothes?" the detective inquired.

"No, I was simply—"

Abby grew frustrated as she realized how she had been manipulated, and Carter began to seethe.

"This is all easy to explain," Albrecht said to Allaire. "I'm afraid the lady panicked when she heard her boyfriend was about to stumble upon our little tryst, and she came up with this story that I had assaulted her."

Abby gasped, and Carter's face grew red and angry.

"Bastard," Abby said.

"Son of a—" Carter scrambled to his feet. "Ask him how he got that scar! Ask him what he did to the woman in the refugee camp—"

"Dr. Carter—" Allaire interrupted, but Carter's rage won out.

"Ask him who fathered the baby with the crushed chest that I tried to save three days ago!"

Abby winced at the reminder of Colette's fatal injury.

"Dr. Carter, I'm afraid we'll be holding you on Dr. Albrecht's complaint," Allaire announced over the growing chaos.

"No!" Abby yelled.

Albrecht stood with a satisfied look, while Allaire signaled a uniformed officer to remove Carter from the room.

"Abby, I'll call Chapin. It'll be okay," Carter tried to reassure her.

"Don't worry, John," Albrecht taunted. "I'll see to it that she gets back to her room."

Carter nostrils flared with anger. He glared at Albrecht and said quietly with round, unblinking eyes: "If you touch her again, I'll kill you."

"Carter!" Abby yelled, exasperated, not recognizing the person who spoke.

"Did you all hear that?" Albrecht exclaimed pointing at Carter.

The uniformed officer who arrived to escort Carter grabbed him tightly and led him away briskly.

"Abby, listen to me," he called to her over his shoulder as they led him down the hall. "Stay here—don't leave the building alone!"

"Let him go!" A booming voice captured everyone's attention, and all motion stopped.

The police captain, a thick-waisted French-Algerian man, stepped from one of the doors along the wall.

"Did you hear what I said?" he looked to Inspector Allaire. "Let him go."

Allaire nodded to the uniformed officer, who reached down to Carter's cuffs. Carter looked at Abby, but she was too busy examining the captain.

"An individual has filed a complaint against Dr. Albrecht that corroborates Dr. Carter's suspicions about him. In fact, I've had three others over the past five years. All were dismissed for one reason or another. However, I think I'm convinced I'd like to ask Dr. Albrecht to stay with us a while."

He nodded to the uniformed officer who approached Albrecht.

Just then a woman stepped out from behind the captain. She was tall and attractive—in her early 30s or so with pretty dark tendrils at the sides of her fair-skinned face. Abby could not place her, though she looked very familiar.

"I know you," Abby said.

"My name is—"

"—Sophie," Abby suddenly remembered. "The woman from the airport."

Abby remembered she was the nurse who'd taken ill and refused to be treated before fleeing the terminal. That's when she met Albrecht and Claire, who were convinced she had gotten cold feet about going to the Congo with the Alliance.

Two officers escorted Albrecht down the hall, but Sophie kept her eyes on Abby.

"I was in the lavatory at the airport," she recounted in lightly accented English. "It was early in the morning. I remember looking up and noticing he was in there with me—in the women's washroom. He held me down—right there." She was upset but composed as she told Abby the story.

Abby asked, "Why didn't you—"

"I was too scared," she looked down with shameful eyes.

"I would have helped you," Abby offered.

"I just wanted to get away."

Abby knew what that felt like.

"Yesterday evening, an ambulance brought him to the hospital where I work. I heard him tell the police that someone assaulted him—a jealous lover, he said—and I knew he must have tried to hurt someone else. I worked a double-shift, and then I came here to the police."

She looked up at Abby.

"I'm sorry. I should have said something sooner."

"It's okay," Abby said.

"They may ask you to come back and testify," Sophie warned.

"That's fine," Abby said and smiled.

Carter came up behind Abby, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and nodded his appreciation to Sophie. Abby wrapped her arm around Carter's waist. As they walked out, Abby turned and shared a look with Sophie.

"Take care of yourself," Abby said, grateful she managed to escape her own close call with Albrecht.

Carter and Abby walked arm in arm out the door. The sun still hadn't risen, though the slighter lighter sky said dawn was near.

"Who was that woman?" Carter asked.

Abby explained what happened at the airport and how she met Albrecht and Claire. "They said she just chickened out of going to the Congo with the Alliance, but I could tell there was something wrong . . ." Abby lamented.

When they reached the bottom of the steps to the station, Carter swung her around in front of him and hugged her.

"Are you all right?" Abby asked him.

"Yeah, are you?" he replied.

She reached up and slipped her arms around his neck.

"What's that you said earlier? One night in Paris I'll never forget?"

"Next time, we'll skip the police station and try the Louvre."

"Good idea," she said, and they kissed.

He lifted his head and looked skyward. "Come with me," he announced and took her by the hand. They began to walk, leaving Dr. Damon Albrecht behind them.

"You know," Abby teased as they strolled, "the really good criminals don't threaten people when they're actually inside a police station."

"They don't?"

"No."

"I'll remember that," he said and kissed the top of her head as they walked.

She made him smile.

HIS ARM FOUND its regular place around her shoulders, while hers tucked comfortably around his waist. Together they strolled out of the old neighborhood of the police station and soon found themselves along the edge of the river and on the footbridge they'd traversed earlier. Once again they came across the grand Cathedral of Notre Dame, only this time Carter directed her past the famous flying buttresses of the massive Gothic structure. They walked the length of the narrow island on which it stood to the very tip that jutted into the river. At that spot, the river is practically at one's feet as if looking over the bow of a boat.

Carter sat down near the point against a tree.

"What are we doing here?" she asked.

He took her hand and silently pulled her down to him.

"On the ground?" she said, feigning outrage.

He didn't answer, yet she obeyed and sat on the moist grass between his legs. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. She had to admit she enjoyed the feeling of his body wrapped around her in the early morning chill, but the darkness made her nervous and his wordlessness made her concerned.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Abby asked again.

"I'm fine. It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me." His expression grew dark.

"What is it?" she tried again.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

He started to play with her hair. "Do you know how much I missed you when I was gone?" he asked.

"You're changing the subject."

"No, I'm not."

He leaned his head back against the tree and stared at the stars in the pre-dawn sky.

"When I was in Kisangani—the first time—a kid came to the hospital with his brother who'd been shot," he started to recount. "It was pretty hopeless . . . I worked on him for hours . . . opened up his chest . . . he died anyway."

"I'm sure you did everything you could," Abby assured him as she looked at the stars with him.

"I went to Matenda after that—the clinic where Luka was working. It's in the middle of nowhere."

"And the hospital in Kisangani isn't?" she half-joked.

"Not like this place. There's fighting every day in Matenda. One day, the clinic was raided by soldiers. It's hard to believe they were even soldiers—they all seemed like kids."

Abby sensed frustration in his voice, and she put her hand on his knee.

"We explained we were just doctors, but they didn't care. They put us on the ground: Me, Luka, Gillian—you met her, right?"

He looked down and strained his neck a little so he could see her face as her head rested on his chest. She nodded yes.

"There we were: On our knees, our hands behind our heads, and these kids were waving handguns around."

Abby curled on her side, still between his legs, and twisted so she could see his face.

"They said something to a clinic worker in French. I don't know what they were saying, but they sh—" he choked and swallowed hard. "They shot him."

"Oh my God," Abby said softly.

"This kid . . . this soldier . . . comes over to me and presses a gun to my forehead . . . he's yelling in French . . . I have no idea what he's saying . . . I-I was so scared."

She nodded, unable to speak.

He looked down at her.

"You know what I was thinking about down there on my knees with a gun . . . here?" he said and pointed his index finger to his forehead.

That's when she saw him struggling to keep control of his emotions. She found herself gripping his T-shirt in her fist.

"You'd think I'd be wondering: Will it hurt? Will I die instantly? But I wasn't."

His eyes were glistening, and his chin quivered rapidly. It made Abby emotional, too.

"All I could think of was if he kills me right now," his pressed his lips together tightly to control his voice. "Abby will never know how much I love her."

She couldn't speak. His face was anguished.

"I walked away from you in the ambulance bay when I left for Africa, and I never told you how I felt."

She curled against him tightly. "It's okay," she said as she opened her fist, released the cloth of his shirt, and ran her flat hand over his chest. "It's okay."

"Turns out one of the soldiers was the brother of that kid I worked on in Kisangani," he continued. "He told the others how hard I tried to save his brother—and they left me alone."

They were quiet for several minutes while she silently leaned against him and stroked his chest.

Soon his cheek came to rest on her hair, and he began stroking her face with the back of his fingers.

"Everything got clearer for me in Africa." He kissed her head. "I came back for you," he whispered next to her ear.

She took his hand from her face and wove her fingers through his. Still curled up against him, she said, "I'm sorry how I acted that morning."

"Then," he said, "I went and did it again. When I left to find Luka, I walked away from you again."

"You were mad at me—"

"I'm sorry," he said to her.

"It's over now."

She snuggled closer, and they sat quietly, until she heard him exclaim, "Look!"

Carter nodded toward the sky. Just then the sun peeked out from its bed below the horizon and began to fill the atmosphere with spectacular colors—brilliant golds and rich reds floated among still-black shadows left over from the night.

Abby stood up and walked a few feet to the very point of the narrow strip of land and stared at the magnificence.

Carter stood himself. He came up behind her, put his arms around her, and pulled her toward him, tucking her head beneath his chin.

"It's so beautiful," she whispered reverently.

"Abby," he said close to her ear. "Remember the unfinished message I left on your machine . . . ?"

"You said, 'I just want you to know,' and then you stopped."

"I stopped because I was scared to tell you—"

"Tell me what?"

He exhaled loudly and held her tighter and looked to the sunrise for strength. "I just wanted you to know that no matter what happens, no matter how far apart it seems we are . . . " He stopped for a moment to regroup. "Abby . . . I'll never love anyone else the way I love you."

Abby reached up and untangled his arms from around her and began walking past the tree and up toward the road.

"What?" he called after her. "What? Don't you feel that way?"

"No," she snapped and stopped with her back still to him. She turned around. "Because I'll never love anyone else." She looked at him with glistening, wet eyes. And then she smiled.

Who was this woman?

CARTER AND ABBY stopped back at the Hotel de Crillon to pick up their overnight bags. Carter arranged to have Henri forward the rest of their belongings to Chicago. Abby agreed to accept as gifts a few of the garments Carter bought for her with Henri's help. However, she declined the strapless ballgown she wore the night before, considering it too extravagant. A small nod from Carter was enough for Henri to know that he should pack the dress with special care and send it along with the rest of their things.

On the airplane, Carter watched out the window of his cramped coach seat. His seat and Abby's were at the extreme rear of the cabin and were the only ones available on the flight. Anxious to get home, they grabbed them. Abby relaxed with her head on Carter's shoulder and a red-felt airline blanket on her lap. He thought she slept soundly, but instead Abby watched intently in front of her as little wet eyes and a damp, red nose alternately appeared and disappeared behind the black and gold seatback as the mother in front of her bounced her fretting infant over her shoulder to quiet her.

With many hours to strategize, Carter made plans for them to go to his apartment as soon as they landed. He would fetch his great grandmother's ring and give it to her over lunch at one of their favorite restaurants overlooking Lake Michigan. Abby, meanwhile, plotted to take him to her apartment, present him with her key once more, and give him the greeting she denied him the morning he returned from Kisangani. She smiled to herself mischievously and snuggled closer to his chin.

When he saw Abby raise her hand in a little wave to the crying baby in the seat ahead of her, he realized she was awake.

"Tough to sleep?" he said referring to the decibels of the infant's shrieks.

"I don't mind it," Abby smiled and sat up in her seat.

"When we get home, I want to stop off at my apartment—" They said it in unison and burst into giggles.

"Let's go to my place first," he said.

"No, let's go to mine first," she countered.

"I have to get something."

"Me, too"

"This is important."

"So's mine!"

"My place first, then we'll go to yours," he bargained.

"How about mine first, and then we'll go to yours?"

He sighed loudly in frustration.

"How about we get a taxi to drop us each at our own place, and then we'll meet up after?"

"Fine," she said and leaned her head back on the seat. "Drop me off first."

In the skies over the Atlantic flew a sleek silver airplane carrying two friends in love. They were formidable individuals on the outside—caring and dynamic professionals. But they were molten inside, and they flowed apart. It took a trip across the ocean to bring them back together—with help from friends they met along the way. They learned that with adulthood comes freedom and power—the freedom to reject the memories that cause pain and the power to heal the wounds of childhood. Sure, they had a lot more learning to do, but from here on they would do it together . . .

. . . because the broken-hearted girl was happy, and the lonely boy was loved.

Mid-flight, Abby lifted the armrest that divided them. She leaned close to Carter and placed her tired head on his chest. He wrapped one arm around her and let his hand slide up under her shirt a bit and rest on her stomach. The fingers of his other hand played with her hair as he pressed a kiss against her head. "I love you," he whispered in her ear as he coaxed her gently into sleep and tried to reach for some himself.

Eyes closed and consciousness ebbing, Abby rubbed her cheek softly against the cotton of his T-shirt and let her arm drift over his waist. With sleep in her voice, she replied softly, "I love you, too."

Of this, they were sure.

However, what they didn't know yet—and wouldn't know for many weeks to come—was that after making love the night before, a small piece of him found a small piece of her. And the love of their lives started growing, nurtured in a dark and cozy corner of her belly, just beneath a father's soothing hand.

—THE END—

Fate hides in the sky behind the stars and arranges the destiny of souls like pieces in a chess game.

And sometimes, it winks at you.

My undying gratitude to all those who followed Carter and Abby to Europe and Africa. If you knew what it meant to me for you to read this, you'd be happy you did. —KFS