I poured a fresh cup of coffee and returned to the bedroom. Amy had rolled to the spot on the bed where I slept. She turned on her back and peeked at me.

“Coffee, please,” she said. She pulled up in the bed, pushing the pillows behind her back, and she leaned against the backboard. The covers fell from her breasts.

I gave her the cup and sat on the bed beside her.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“A little after six-thirty.”

“Do you always get up this early?”

“Most of the time.”

She sipped from the coffee. “Ummm, good.”

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She touched my lips with her fingers. “Yes. I’m fine.”

“You want to go back to sleep?”

She smiled. “When we go to Europe, I insist on sleeping until at least eight o’clock—every morning.”

“Maybe in Paris.”

“Especially in Paris,” she said.

She put the cup on the night table and moved over in the bed and took my hand and pulled me to her.

“We forgot something last night,” she whispered.

“Did we?”

“You can’t be that old,” she said. She nuzzled my chest with her face. “But we don’t have a lot of time to make up for it.”

“Why don’t we?” I asked.

“Carter will be here at seven-thirty. I called and left a message for him when you were shopping. He called back just before you got here.”

We made love hurriedly, but with passion that was of muscle and soul—strong, uninhibited, giving. It was more than sex. It was an exorcism of everything that had ruled us, every pressure, every prohibition. Amy cried aloud in the final, rushing convulsion and then she threw her body against me and held me. “My God,” she whispered. “My God.” We showered and dressed. When Carter arrived, we were in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

He was in Carter form. It was in his grin and in the light of his eyes.

“So, here we are,” he enthused with a sweep of his arms around the kitchen. “This is great. Little mom-and-pop scene. Real homey, Amy. Real homey.”

“I think so, too,” I said. “I just got here.”

Carter laughed his evil laugh.

“Both of you, stop it,” warned Amy. “I heard enough of your little-boy jokes when you actually were little boys. Carter, pour yourself some coffee and get some orange juice if you want it. Where’s Libby?”

“Still asleep, I guess,” Carter said. “I didn’t even tell her about this. She’s too damned young to appreciate it, which is the only thing I despise about youth. If I’d known where to find Rene, I’d have invited her, but anybody else would have been an intrusion.”

I looked at Amy and smiled. She fought not to laugh and lost the fight.

“What?” Carter said. “What did I say?”