She sprang to her feet and pulled at the buttons on his shirt, smearing it with the stigmata of Renaissance gold he’d dabbed in her palms. No longer content to be his creation, she needed to re-create him in her image, and when he was naked, she pressed against his flesh.

The hot pigments blended and fused as she imprinted herself upon him. Once again there was no bed, so she pulled the cushions from the couch and kissed him until they were both breathless. Finally he drew back far enough so she could open herself to him. “Lilly, my love …” He entered her as fiercely as he created.

The paint made her inner thighs slip against his hips, so she gripped tighter. He plunged harder and faster. Their mouths melded with their bodies until they stopped being two people. Together they tumbled off the edge of the world.

Afterward they played with the paint and exchanged deep kisses along with all the love words they needed to say. Only when they were in the shower did Lilly tell him she wouldn’t marry him.

“Who asked you?”

“Not right away,” she added, ignoring his bluster. “I want to live together for a while first. In perfect bohemian sin.”

“Just tell me I don’t have to rent a cold-water flat somewhere in lower Manhattan.”

“No. And not Mexico either. In Paris. Wouldn’t that be lovely? I could be your muse.”

“My darling Lilly, don’t you know you already are?”

“Oh, Liam, I love you so. The two of us … an atelier in the Sixth Arrondissement owned by an old lady in ancient Chanel suits. You and your genius and your wonderful, wonderful body. And me and my quilts. And wine and paint and Paris.”

“They’re yours.” He laughed his great lusty laugh and soaped her breasts. “Did I remember to say that I love you?”

“You did.” She smiled the depth of her feelings into those dark, intense eyes. “I’ll hang a set of wind chimes under the eaves.”

“Which will keep me awake, so I’ll have to make love to you all night.”

“I do love wind chimes.”

“And I do love you.”

With a sense of detachment Kevin watched the indicator on the Ferrari’s speedometer climb. Eighty-seven … eighty-eight. He shot west on the tollway past the last of Chicago’s suburbs. He’d drive all the way to Iowa if he had to, anything to make this restlessness go away so he could concentrate on what was important.

Training camp started tomorrow morning. He’d drive until then.

He needed to feel the speed. The sizzle of danger. Ninety … ninety-one.

Next to him the divorce papers that had arrived that morning from Molly’s lawyer slid off the seat. Why hadn’t she talked to him before she’d done this? He tried to steady himself by remembering what was important.

He had only five or six good years left …