For Rowland, distance was a last resort. If he remained here, two feet away, he thought, and if she did not look up, or meet his eyes, then he might be able to disguise what he felt. Once, she had said at a point when he had already made love to her twice. Throughout this evening, in the cab, in the rue St. Séverin, here in this room, while she telephoned and he used the fax, she had moved through his thoughts. In his mind he had continued to touch her, kiss her, make love.

Perhaps she did not feel this, he thought. He stood at that safe distance, just those two feet from the desk. His body had begun to stir the instant he locked the door. He looked at Gini’s bent head, at the pale curve of her neck, at the ordinary white shirt she was wearing, the ordinary black skirt. She was extraordinarily slender; he could span her waist with his hands, yet she had full and very beautiful breasts, their areolae wide and dark. He closed his eyes, fighting the memory of his own hands, and his mouth, pressed against those breasts. He felt her hands on his skin, the soft openness of her mouth. He swore in a low voice, looked blindly around the room, half turned, then moved back to the desk.

He stood immediately behind her, then, when he could resist the impulse no longer, rested his hands against her shoulders and her throat. He felt her body become rigid with tension at once. Even then, he thought later, even then he might have been able to retain control, but she tilted her head back and met his eyes. He bent forward and kissed her mouth, and in that instant he was lost. She caught hold of his hands and drew them forward inside her blouse. She gave a moan that might have been desire or despair, then twisted up out of the chair and into his embrace.

He could read the need and the desperation he felt in her eyes, and in that moment was certain that she had been as desperate to continue something unfinished as he had been.

He began to undo her blouse as she fumbled first with the buttons of his shirt, then his belt. As he caught her to him, and her bared breasts touched his bared skin, she gave a low cry and shuddered against him.

She rested one of her hands against his thigh, then his groin. She gave a moan, clinging to him and seeking his mouth. Rowland could think of nothing but entering her again. He pulled her down beside him, murmuring her name; she lay back among scattered papers and scattered clothes, drawing his hand down between her thighs. She was very wet; his fingers could slip inside her easily; she arched back in a quick ecstasy of pleasure.

She parted her legs, frantic for him to enter her. Rowland thrust up into her deep, knowing she would come almost immediately. If he moved a very little, he thought, just once, just twice. Lifting himself on his arms, looking down at her face, he watched her astonishing eyes, watched the waves of abandonment move like light across her face. He waited, withdrew, thrust again, and began to move carefully, because they were still not familiar to each other, and he wanted her to adjust her rhythms to his. It took her a little while; at first, as he fucked, he thought she was resisting him, deliberately mistiming her response to his strokes. He thought he knew the reason for that, as he waited, moved, waited again, although this was hard for him, because he was very aroused, and his own climax was close. He used all his skills, every pleasure device, and at last he felt that odd female resistance begin to give. Her eyes opened and met his. He bent his head and kissed her breasts, moving deep inside her.