When I posted the first chapter of this "story" (which was originally meant to be a single-chapter piece), I said it was written "just because". I hope that same reasoning is excuse enough for what happened with this last installment. It started out as a nice bit of observation from an OC and morphed into an M-ish piece of self-gratification. Hey. It happens.

Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –

EPILOGUE, PART 2 – HEARTS UNITED

Saturday dawned bright and beautiful, the heat finally having broken and a few strokes of fall color tinting the leaves of the flowering trees in the church courtyard. Relief swept over him as he stepped outside and surveyed the pretty patch of garden that would serve as the backdrop outside the tall windows of the little chapel where the ceremony would be held in just under half an hour, surprise at the turn of events bringing a light, if rueful, smile to his lips. He turned on the walk and headed for the side door of the original old chantry that nestled along one side of the church proper.

Father Scott Day had come to the little Sacramento parish forty years ago, filled with idealistic and naïve hopes. Learning he was being sent to a California city—the capitol no less—he had immediately embarked on fantasies of an urban mission, ministering to the homeless, the drunken and addicted, the immoral downcast and downtrodden of the inner city. His dismay at the sweet little church and grounds nestled at the city's hub amidst gleaming mid-rises and abutting the state government compound seemed ridiculous to him now, dreams of wrestling against sin in the trenches abruptly dashed. It had taken him time to realize that the people who found their way to the sanctuary at all hours came, not because they had stumbled in or were looking for respite from the elements but because they were searching for something—peace, solace, answers; that they needed ministering to as surely as the more obviously lost sheep.

Although she was by no means a "regular", Teresa Lisbon had become a sort of fixture for him. When her call came, he had impulsively given into what he knew she knew was an untoward request—a quickie wedding in a Catholic church, performed by a priest in good standing, no less. He had waved the weeks of counseling and sacramental requirements, pausing for thought only after the call had ended and he relaxed back into his ancient leather desk chair.

He had first met her a few years previous when she came to the church as he was making his last rounds before retiring to his private rooms for the night. She was obviously troubled, had caught his eyes on her, her own sliding toward the confessional and back to where he stood, in silent request. He had proceeded there immediately feeling her only a few, quiet steps behind him.

Years previous, she had kept a secret for a friend against the law and against the rules. She was a cop, she had said at that point, without hesitation or defensiveness or untoward pride, much the same way he would have imagined her informing someone that she was a brunette, as if it were naturally a part of her. Then, this friend had done something to a "co-worker", she had called him, though Day could hear something more in the way she referred to him. The action was not unwarranted, she hastened to the first friend's defense, but it had been done for the wrong reasons and would cause much more harm than good. And she had used the secret against him, outright blackmailing him. She was obviously upset about hurting him, not even touching on what harm she would have done to herself if she had made good on the threat. This clear indication of her selflessness in the matter, together with her breaking guilt and regret (clear signs of sincere contrition), had played an important part in his decision to give light instructions for her absolution. She confessed a fairly short litany of other sins—lies, envy, anger. There were others unconfessed, he was certain, given her age, lifestyle and occupation, but it had been years since he had learned his lesson about making assumptions in the confessional booth, so he didn't press.

Since then, her visits had been sporadic and always after dark. A few months later, she had come, wistful and grief stricken, to light a candle. There were periodic confessions, in which the co-worker figured heavily and became "colleague" then, eventually, "friend". While he would never be so jaded or unkind as to call his regular congregants' confessions dull, he did listen to Teresa Lisbon's, explanations and subtext included, with a certain amount of unpriestly relish.

Then, a little over a year ago, her visits suddenly became more frequent. She would sit in a pew late at night, sometimes with head bowed, sometimes facing the icons at the altar with a questioning, bewildered look of such abject sadness that he wished he could go to her and gather her in his arms, only restrained by the certain knowledge that such outright recognition of her suffering would forever chase her from the sanctuary she found here. A few times she had lit a candle in prayer. Eventually, another flame illumined in a reserved and cautious thanksgiving. Over the next few months, she came to periodically confess anger, frustration and the desire to do bodily harm to someone, though he was sure it was not a certain co-worker-colleague-friend. That year she had attended Christmas Eve mass, her first and only since he had known her.

He hadn't heard from her in several weeks, so the evening call was a surprise, the request a shock, though neither could apply to the identity of her intended. His acquiescence was nearly immediate, though not impetuous. He knew they would marry quickly at any cost, but he felt it would be better at the church (even if, in good conscience, he could not perform the rite in the actual sanctuary), better for her and for their union. Plus, he had to admit, he selfishly just wanted to be a part of it.

And, he was certain, her brothers would not be able to attend on such short notice, so it was only fitting that someone stand in as something close to family. Old enough to be her physical father and serving in the religious capacity of that title, he thought it was his duty to stand in the gap. He had gone a long way in fulfilling it when, upon meeting the groom the evening before, he had studied him without subtlety, refused stolidly to laugh at any of his jokes and consistently turned on him what he and his friends in Sister Agnes' seventh-grade class had come to call "the stink eye". In the end, it was not the man's good looks or easy charm or winning smile that had made him glad he had "gone renegade". Even an old fool of a priest could see that Patrick Jane was utterly smitten, so thoughtful, solicitous and respectful in his behavior toward her as he was, and in such a way that would grow over the years rather than wane. Father Day could only wish all of the husbands in his congregation could be so in love with their wives.

"Speak of the devil," he thought, eyes narrowing at the three men entering at the back of the chapel. One was the groom, seemingly calm and composed, the tell-tale trailing of one palm up and down the side of his neat pin-striped vest the only indication of nerves, though his eyes repeatedly darting to the chapel doors told Father Day it was more than mere wedding jitters. The other two men he knew by description only, Cho and Rigsby, Teresa's subordinates and friends to bride and groom. Feminine laughter sounded from the hallway, and he knew the ladies, Teresa and her attendant, Grace Van Pelt had arrived. At Patrick's immediately relieved smile, Father Scott couldn't help a benevolent shake of his head.

On the hour, the gentlemen took their places, Cho leaving through the back doors to re-enter later at the bride's side. The guitar began to play, one heavy door wafted open, and a vision in lavender entered the room. Agent Rigsby's eyes skittered along one wall and across the ceiling then resignedly came to rest on Agent Van Pelt as she processed gracefully down the short aisle. The priest's heart warmed with satisfaction when he saw that the groom spared not a glance away from the entry behind her.

Then, the moment came. Agent Cho stepped in, brawny arms swinging back the heavy doors as if they were little more than air to prop them open. When he stood at one side in an at-ease posture, face emotionless, the wedding party at the intimate altar held their collective breath. Patrick Jane's hand returned to that agitated up-and-down against his well-tailored vest, eyes straining to see beyond the visible bit of empty hallway, and Father Day fought the urge to stride out in search of Teresa Lisbon and demand to know just what the hell she was playing at.

And then she appeared, looking up adoringly and misty-eyed at a tall, dark and quaintly handsome young man standing at her side, her hand curled, resting familiarly and confidently around his elbow. The priest started at the sight, but the collective breath released in joint happiness and satisfaction, and Jane chuckled outright when a young teenaged girl—small, dark-haired, mischievous and bearing a marked resemblance to the bride—stepped behind the two at the threshold and gave them a little push to move them forward, signaling Cho to close the doors once they had all passed through. Teresa turned then and looked at her husband-to-be, and for the first time in decades, Father Scott Day's breath was stolen away at the sight of a woman.

She floated down the aisle, a feast for the eyes in a simple but demure sheath of cream, radiating love and joyful warmth, her bouquet an opulent version of the small nosegay carried by her attendant, and came to rest at Jane's side. Her escort, now recognized by the priest as what must surely be a brother, kissed her hand before transferring it to its new, permanent caretaker, who gave it a light tug then caressed it as she stepped into him with a look of such abject trust that Father Day almost regretted his giving in to the hasty wedding. The answering light in Patrick Jane's eyes relieved him much and, frankly, embarrassed him a little, and he inwardly shrugged. Better to marry than to burn, he told himself before welcoming them and announcing his intention to pray, his gaze hovering over them long enough to see every head bowed, in respect if not faith.

Three sentences in, he heard the doors creak open.

Cutting the prayer short out of curiosity, he lifted his eyes to see who had joined them. The bride and groom turned to look over their shoulders, the rest of the party, including brother and niece following suit. A couple walked halfway up the diminutive aisle and took a seat on what would be the bride's side. The man was roughly a decade younger than Day, his face seasoned by former stresses and hard decisions. The woman was a few years younger still, long-legged, confident, serene and gracious. He treated her in a gentlemanly way, almost courtly in his manner, his hand loosening her hold on his elbow just enough to allow her to take her seat before he slid into the pew next to her, never letting her go completely. He looked up and smiled benignly at the wedding party at large, the bride in particular. They all turned back, eyes front, except the groom. At that point, the older man's eyes narrowed dangerously. He raised two fingers to point at his own eyes then swiveled his wrist so both fingers pointed at Patrick then jabbed his index finger toward the groom in a clearly threatening gesture. The lady at his side smoothed her palm up and down the upper arm to which she still clung in a calming motion. He looked down at her, lowering his hand to give hers a pat then lifted his gaze to the priest and gave a commanding jerk of his head as if to say Get on with it.

Because of the small size of the gathering and the informal atmosphere, he had decided to skip the readings and go straight to the homily, man and woman coming together in accordance with God's holy ordinance, defense against sins of the flesh (skimming that part), for the procreation and the blessing of children (wondering if there would be any), the relationship between Christ and His Church (ignoring the twinge of guilt). He stopped suddenly and leaned toward the bride.

"We didn't discuss this part—I didn't see the need, but since he's here . . ."

She rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" he intoned formally.

The tall, gangly man who stood just behind her hesitantly opened his mouth, but it was a much younger, distinctly feminine voice that answered.

"Her brother and I do!"

And with that, the teenager gave her father's jacket sleeve a tug and they took their seats on the front row, unsurprisingly also on the bride's side. At that point, the door groaned open again. And again, all eyes turned to watch another beauty, this one tall and dark and stately, sail up the aisle as if there were no question of her belonging there. Each hand held that of a child, boy and girl, the latter slightly older, both wide-eyed and beautiful as their mother. The little girl gave a wave toward the bride and received a wobble of the large bouquet back. They settled in on the same side as the other guests, the woman looking up and ending the wedding party's surprised stares with a pointedly arched eyebrow and a slow back and forth roll of her shoulders as she crossed her arms over her chest.

The principals and their attendants against faced front, but before Father Day could continue, the oaken door again creaked on its hinges. This time, the wedding party turned as one (with the priest) to glare at the interruption. A large man, in kindness Day could only describe him as portly, balding, wearing a light suit, lumbered into the room, obviously hoping to be unobtrusive, and lowered himself into the end of the rear pew, again on the bride's side. He looked up at the party, rapidly shifting eyes clouded with apology. The party turned slowly, looking close to shellshocked. The groom leaned a little toward the bride and said something out the corner of his mouth. She scowled darkly at him up through her eyebrows and gave a tiny, sharp shake of her head, swallowed hard then whispered a slightly strangled, "Go on." "And hurry," the groom added in what the bride apparently thought was inappropriate humor.

In spite of the coolness of the room, Father Day felt a band of perspiration forming at his collar.

"Um . . .," he murmured, leaning toward the two in front of him. "I know we didn't talk about this either, but now that there are a number of guests . . ."

Teresa all but hid her face in her flowers in embarrassed understanding, and he lifted his head to look about the room.

"If there is anyone here who knows just cause why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony—" He would not choke on the words. "—let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

It was issued as a challenge, and he gave his best threatening, disapproving glare. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Teresa's apprehensive slump and Patrick's assuring pat and squeeze of her hand that wound around his arm. There was the sound of rustling fabric as one guest shifted, the creak of a complaining pew from another, but all voices remained silent.

Deciding in this case that quicker was better, Father Day rolled through the vows and exchange of rings, confident by now that the meanings were written on the hearts of those involved, the words and actions mere formalities.

"And now, by the power vested in me by Holy Church and the state of California—" His racing speech came to a halt and he breathed deep and sighed gustily. "I'm now happy and relieved to pronounce you husband and wife. You may—"

He might have expected that a famed mentalist would precipitate him.

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In the end, she didn't really miss the wedding brunch. As it turned out, after the congratulations and hugs—one of them rather awkward, made even more so by Jane pulling her away after a few seconds—she was glad to be away from people. She knew her team, accompanied now by Virgil and May to make up the rest of the party of five, would probably appreciate not eating brunch with the newly married couple and the inevitable attending discomfort, at least on the part of the men.

The few hours after the wedding were spent in private celebration at a nearby hotel before Jane literally whisked her away to the airport. He insisted she ride blindfolded, wanting all to remain a surprise until the last possible moment. Even packing was kept to a minimum of necessities and one day's worth of clothing, Jane assuring her they would be able to purchase all they needed once they arrived at their destination.

Shocked when they exited the car on the tarmac of a private hangar, she looked in wonder at the Bombardier, gleaming white in the late afternoon sun. Deciding to simply go with the flow and—for once—ask no questions (to Jane's delight if not outright relief), she snuggled deeply into the leather seat, enjoyed the free-flowing bar and weighted appetizer trays and wondered languidly where a ten-hour flight would take them.

After a while, the clouds cleared and she looked down on sporadic lights on waving ground that she realized in the awakening dawn must be maritime lamps on ocean water. They landed on what turned out to be the island of St. Thomas, boarded the ferry and drifted into Cruz Bay on nearby St. John. True to his word, Jane found a boutique and purchased what she thought was the barest minimum of clothing. Knowing it wasn't enough for one of the resorts dotting the beach, she again kept her questions to herself.

Now, four days into their stay, she lay on a heavy, wide-slatted teak lounger Jane had dragged onto the sand from the pool's deck for her before he left on his mysterious errands. The private beach house, with its white stucco walls and deep red-metal roof, not overly large but luxuriously furnished, rose behind her, the ocean waves pounding mere yards from her feet. She let the book she was trying to read fall into the sand beside her and laid the chaise back into a flat recline, her left arm stretching lazily above her head, whole body lulled by the warm sun soaking into the skin revealed by the red bandeau and string bikini Jane had selected for her. She had thought she would be glad for the time alone—they had been together every second since they'd arrived—but she found herself, most uncharacteristically—

"Miss me?"

She pursed her lips at him, eyes still closed. "Back already?"

"Couldn't stay away too long."

"Oh?" she responded nonchalantly.

She felt him kneel in the sand next to her, his hand sliding under her back to tug at the bow that held her top in place.

"As ironic as I find the concept of the marriage bed being a defense against sins of the flesh, I was away from you a little over an hour and found myself in need of . . . defending."

She chuckled in satisfaction as she felt the tie give. "You're the most defenseless person I think I've ever met."

"What can I say?" he answered, pulling the bandeau from beneath her on one side then skimming his hand across her chest as he pulled it over and freed the other end, dropping the material on the opposite side. "The enticements are near constant."

He dipped his head and kissed her shoulder, and she hummed on a smile, still not wanting to open her eyes. The better to feel you with.

"That reminds me, Father Day mentioned children. Given any thought to that?"

She rolled her raised arm against the touch of his fingertips trailing down it. "We'll see."

"Those are fast becoming my favorite words." He nuzzled the side of her breast. "The most wonderful things happen when we say them." He stretched over her, his lips to her ear, and whispered, "We'll see, Teresa." She felt him sit back a few inches. "See? Your shoulders didn't even tense that time."

The lounger creaked around her, and she felt his warmth before he settled his weight fully on her body.

"Are you ever going to make use of those board shorts you bought?" she asked in feigned exasperation.

"Meh," he rumbled into her hair. "Doesn't seem to be much point when it's just the two of us."

"What about Mina?" she inquired, referring to the cook-housekeeper who seemed to come with the place.

"Sent her home for the day."

"What will we do about dinner?"

She heard the smile in his words as he looked down at her. "You've really gotten into the lady-of-leisure lifestyle haven't you?"

"Enticements are near constant."

He chuckled and smoothed her hair back, lightly kissed her forehead. "We're going into town, to Asolare. That's where I went. And to pick up something to wear." Another light kiss to her temple. "I did wear the board shorts by the way."

"You wore them into town?"

She remembered how he looked in them, little more than of strip of fabric, light blue with a swirl of off-white design, riding scandalously low on his tanned hips. Outside of speedos and a raid on an S and M bordello as a newbie in San Francisco, she'd never seen anything skimpier on a man. She felt the pad of his thumb sooth against the wrinkle that divided her brow.

"Not just the shorts. Wore the linen shirt too. Everybody was dressed the same, so nobody noticed me."

The pad smoothed across to rub the tension out of her skeptically arched eyebrow. His lips lowered to hers, breathing out, "I didn't notice anybody," before he kissed her.

She relaxed beneath him, feeling his lips trail along her jaw then down her neck. "I wish we could stay here forever," she sighed contentedly.

"Sorry, love," he murmured against her pulse point. "I only won it for the week."

At that her whole body did tense, as did Jane's in response over her. The spell broken, her eyes opened and slid sideways at him even as his head raised and his eyes mirrored hers.

"What do you mean—" she asked evenly, "—you 'won'? I thought we agreed a year ago, no more Vegas."

"Bear with me," he began, bracing his weight against his forearms on either side of her. "I didn't go to Vegas. It was Reno." At her questioning look, he hurried on before she could launch into full-on interrogation. She had been doing so well. "Do you remember Alexandra Yee?"

"Yeah," she answered thoughtfully. "The Meier case, about four years ago. At the casino, she was a—"

"Blackjack dealer, yes," he nodded at her. "After the case cleared, she and Ann Meier—"

"The victim's wife."

"— and her daughter Jessica—"

"The murderer's wife."

"—and Matt Ettiene—"

"The security guy."

"They all went into business together as casino consultants. I contacted Alexandra—"

"Why her?"

He looked at her sheepishly. "She owed me a favor . . ." He rolled one shoulder. "Sort of."

Lisbon searched through her memories of the case and Alexandra Yee. Her eyes slimmed in thought.

"Etienne caught her cheating at the tables but kept her on because she was blackmailing him over his affair with the boss's wife."

Her searching her mental catalogue continued as Jane went on with his explanation.

"I looked her up, called her and told her what I wanted. She supplied a list of possible players—"

"Whales."

"Yes. Really big whales."

"She was trying to make money for her mother's kidney transplant."

"Yes, during the case. Anyway, I looked the list over—"

"You never told us what you did with the money you won in that last game."

"What? No, I didn't. Anyway—"

"Jane. You gave her the money." She raised her head and kissed him, fully and warmly on the lips. He returned and deepened the kiss before breaking it off suddenly.

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Do you think you have to tell me?"

"I don't want it coming up at an inopportune time later."

"Then tell away."

"I looked the list over and found what I wanted and called her back with the names. She made the calls and set the game up in Reno, not Vegas, and we played over the weekend while you and I . . . weren't . . . together."

He was squinting at her apprehensively now, unsure how she would take the news of how their honeymoon had been provided.

"Did you cheat?" she asked directly.

"No. I read the other players, but there was no counting cards, and Alexandra was the dealer."

"Did you manipulate the outcome in any other way, use any tricks or diversions?"

"No. I even let them keep some of their money. Last hand, we all agreed to bet a service of some kind—"

"What 'service' did you bet?"

"Doesn't matter. Anyway, one of them put up the use of his jet—he was a blinker—and another put up one week at his Caribbean beach house. He had this thing about tapping his cards when he bluffed. I won enough to cover expenses, so they didn't even really lose anything."

Her body eased beneath him, and she smiled delightedly. "That's brilliant."

"So, , . . you're okay with this?"

"You didn't break the law, didn't break a promise, we got this great honeymoon, and nobody's angry? Seems like a win all the way around."

"And if I want to do it again?"

"One proviso."

"Name it."

"I go with you."

He made to argue, but her hands landed softly on his upper arms in assurance. "I won't interfere, I promise. I just want to be there." One hand slid up to round against the back of his head and pulled it down so she could whisper in his ear, "It's hot when you play cards."

I love this woman, he thought. When she tipped her head back against the teak and laughed, bright and joyful, he realized he'd said the words aloud. Lying fully on her, his hands trailed down her sides to untie the strings at her hips and pull away the last impediment to full-body contact. Lisbon's legs moved reflexively to either side of him, and she inhaled, deep and ragged when he sunk into her and pushed up to more fully seat himself.

"You okay?" he rumbled in her ear.

"There's usually more . . . foreplay."

"I knew you were ready," he whisper-smiled.

"How?" she asked, curiosity intently focused.

"You have a tell. Five to be exact. S'why I usually draw things out. Want all of them in play." He pushed up and down once slowly. "But I only need the one."

She closed her eyes and whispered back, "Tell me."

"Huh-uh." His hands curved around her arms and raised them on either side of her head, palms smoothing all the way up to her wrists. "Stay right there," he murmured against one eyelid.

Elbows again braced on either side of her, he lifted himself a few inches above her and rolled up and down again, humming in approval when one of her knees bent and lifted against him. Unthinking, one of her hands drifted down and found his shoulder, skimming across and down to center on his chest. All movement stopped.

"No," he said gruffly, and she blinked up at him in question. His eyes, tempest green and commanding, burned into hers. "They move, I stop."

She gulped and nodded silently, slowly sliding her arm back up into place, eyes closing once more. Jane resumed, over, in and on her, stilling only momentarily before she heard the wood near the left side of her head creak under pinpointed weight. Breeze wafted over her body as he lifted away from her, and she felt his left palm curve around her right thigh and lift. The sensations he was creating, heightened by her concentration on feeling and hearing alone, were enough, but curiosity as to what he looked like got the better of her, and she barely opened her eyes to slits. Almost instantly, she wished she hadn't for the sudden rush it brought to her blood. His weight bolstered against his right hand, his body arced over hers, left hand holding her thigh high against his side, he looked like a statue of gold and ruddy marble, caught in carving in a moment of pure and perfect passion. Her eyes opened fully at the sight of his, still burning down at her in heated green.

She knew how she looked, how he saw her, arms raised above her head, vulnerable and passive against his sheer physicality. But passivity suddenly did not suit her. His head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed in warning at her. She had faced this before, found herself in the weaker position and turned it to her advantage without breaking the rules. Still in place as he had ordered, her wrists rotated bringing her palms down to curve around the top edge of the lounger. Taking hold, she used the grasp as leverage and brought her hips up then rolled them down in time with his movement, squeezing around him as she did. As her hips ground down hard against him, her chest lifted, and his head dropped as if in surrender.

She closed her eyes against the visual erotic onslaught and felt something hot and wet close over one breast. When it began a rhythmic tugging in perfect synchronization with everything else around her—the air, the waves, and Jane's body—she whimpered in selfish regret. When she had said she wished they could stay there forever, she hadn't meant only this time and place, but each of these moments. Right now, she wanted this moment to last, and as she felt what was rapidly approaching, she wished she could call it back. Her desperation only made the unfurling of sensation, the hot, electric charge that rolled down her legs and up along her torso, her arms and into the very roots of her hair, all the more overpowering. Her body shuddered, inside and out, and her eyes opened once more, gaze lowering to the crop of golden curls still undulating over her breast. He looked up at her and must have read what he saw. The telltale shiver she had felt in his body leveled, and his forehead creased in concentration. His eyes closed and his head hung to one side against the round of his shoulder in the effort to maintain his steady, strong rhythm. Knowing there were no rules now, her hands gratefully landed on his upper arms, and she worked with and against him, matching her tempo to his.

She felt the build again and cried out in relief as this time the crest rolled over her, deep and unhurried, rippling even through her bones. Only then did she feel him tremble beneath her palms and against her body, slow to a stop, and drop gently to rest his head against her shoulder with a sated groan.

Her mind cleared and thoughts came back together, and she raised her hand, fingers tangling in his curls, and kissed the top of his head with a chuckle. He shifted, nuzzling his querying "Hm?" against her.

"You were right," she said, idly stroking against his scalp. "Not having your sight does hone the other senses." He tilted his head back to look up at her. "The first orgasm was red, . . . like a chili pepper, a hot fiery jolt. The last was a deep, beautiful purple." She crimped her neck to drop a kiss on his nose. "Don't ask me for a metaphor for that one."

He hummed against her again and turned his face into her, kissing the top curve of her breast as her fingers stroked down the back of his neck.

"You know," she mused, "if anyone had told me a year ago, or six months or even three that I'd be here, today, like this, with you? I would've laughed in their face."

He tucked his head and kissed over her breast bone then just to the left.

"The heart wants—," he began.

"—what the heart wants," she answered.

He pushed up, hovering over her and looked down into her eyes and said determinedly, "It will not be denied."

"I never stood a chance, did I?"

She laughed softly at the pleased glint in his eyes then whispered a plea.

"Kiss me, Jane."

And he bowed his head and yielded.

END