She shifted restlessly. He felt the faint gyration of her body through his hand on her waist. He took that as a signal to move lower, his lips feathering across her jaw-line, then down the long, smooth column of her throat. Her breathing quickened. He felt her pulse flutter beneath the tip of his tongue.

"Tell me a story," he whispered as he dipped his head into the V of her soft chambray shirt and inhaled the fragrance of her skin.

"Ican't…talk."

"I don't want you remembering, Rainie. I want you in this moment with me." He picked up her left hand and placed her palm on his chest, where he knew his heart was racing. "Talk to me about anything you wish. You talk. Ill touch." His lips returned to her throat.

"Mmmmm, when I was a little girl" – her voice was husky – "I was… going to be… a gymnast. An Olympic athlete. Mmmm hmmmm."

"You have an athlete's body." He ran his hand down her side, appreciating the taut feel of her form. She was a runner, like him. He had a sudden image of their long, naked limbs intertwined on white cotton sheets and had to catch himself. Breathe deep. Take it slow.

"Did you take lessons?" he asked softly, his fingers finding the first button of her shirt and slipping it free.

"Lessons?"

"Gymnastics."

"Mmmmm…"

He kissed the base of her throat.

"No…"

"Watch competitions?" His lips whispered across her collarbone while his leg slipped between hers, supporting her weight and simultaneously making her gasp.

"I watched… the Olympics…"

"The Olympics are good," he said. He undid the final button on her shirt. The sides fell open. She shivered as the cooler air hit her skin, but didn't protest.

"Nadia Comaneci is my favorite," he said casually. He slid his hands inside her shirt. Her skin was warm and silky, stretched taut over her abdomen, tight around her waist. He stroked her sides, and she shifted restlessly against him.

"Favorite what?" she mumbled.

"Gymnast."

"Oh yeah… that. Mmmmm."

He didn't take off her shirt. Instead, he resumed kissing her mouth, which was opening now, meeting his own advance, and beginning to counter. He trailed more kisses along her jaw, then nuzzled the curve of her ear. Her head turned. She drew him back to her lips, her hips moving faster against his leg, her tongue finally, tentatively, wrapping around his own.

His hands stroked up her spine. They found the clasp of her simple white bra. He let it go, and the undergarment sagged forward.

"I thought you were supposed to do that with one hand," Rainie whispered against his lips.

"I'm out of practice. Remind me next time, and I'll show off."

"Quincy?" she said softly. "Maybe… maybe we should move to the bed."

He didn't need a second invitation. He scooped her up in his arms and headed for the queen-sized bed. At the last moment, he tripped over her shoes. They went down in a tangle of limbs, but managed to land on the down-covered bed. The comforter puffed up. The pillows went poof. Rainie laughed breathlessly. And Quincy found his face between her half-covered breasts. He had to kiss one, then the other. Then his mouth was on her nipple and far from pushing him away, her hands were urging him closer.

"Gymnastics," she was murmuring. "In this moment. Gymnastics, floor routines, balance beams. Quincy…"

Her sigh undid him all over again. He wanted bare skin against bare skin, moan meeting moan. No rush, take it slow. If he didn't get his shirt off now, he was going to die.

He got his shirt off. He stripped off her loose top and dangling bra, then somehow he was on his back and she was on top of him, her pale white breasts pressed against the tanned expanse of his chest.

"I'm not thinking about the Olympics anymore," she whispered.

"What?" he muttered thickly.

"Exactly." She'd found the scar on his left shoulder. She kissed it. Then the small pucker down his arm. The other above his collarbone. "Who did this?"

"Jim Beckett."

"Did you kill him?"

"His ex-wife did."

"I like her." Her head trailed down. She rained tiny kisses across his rib cage, down to his abdomen, and he sucked in his breath sharply. Her hair tickled him. The good kind of tickle. God, she was killing him.

"Quincy," she said solemnly, "I don't want to be like my mother."

"You're not like your mother."

"Night after night. Guy after guy."

"If there's a new guy tomorrow night. I'll shoot him."

"All right then."

"Rainie?"

She placed a finger over his lips. "Don't say it," she murmured. "Save something for afterwards."

She slid off her jeans. She helped him shimmy out of his pants. Then she was on her back and he was poised above her. Her legs parted. Her hips lifted. He couldn't take his eyes off her face, filled with both delicate hope and grim resolution.

"Rainie," he whispered. "It's all right to enjoy life."

"I don't know how."

"Neither do I. We'll learn together."

Her legs wrapped around his. He gritted his teeth and eased in slowly. He tried to be gentle, but immediately, her body stiffened. A spasm moved across her features. He stilled, wanting so badly for it to be good for her, trying so hard to make it good for her. Breathe deep. Don't rush. And then a heartbeat later, her expression changed. Her body eased, adjusted. Wonder lit up her face. She shifted beneath him. Then again, then again.

"Easy…"

"Please… Now. Please!"

He bowed his head. He gave himself over to her and the feel of her hands urging his body. No more control.

No more thoughts in his head. Rainie's cries. Rainie's body. Rainie's trusting gaze.

She cried out. Surprised. Ecstatic. He took one moment to enjoy the expression on her face. Then it was too much; he joined her in the dark, shuddering abyss.

Afterwards, Rainie fell asleep first. Quincy thought he would also doze, but found himself wide awake. The white down comforter was tangled around them. Sun streamed through the bank of windows. He lay on his back with Rainie's head resting upon his shoulder and her arm across his stomach. From time to time, he trailed his fingers down the bare curve of her shoulder and enjoyed the feel of her snuggling close.

He marveled at the sight of her sleeping. Her dark mahogany hair tousled around her pale face. Her long eyelashes like dark smudges against her cheeks. Her shell-pink lips slightly parted, as they uttered small, whispery breaths. Half woman, half child. All his.

His fingers brushed her arm again. She murmured something softly in her sleep.

"I'll never hurt you, Rainie," Quincy said quietly. Then his gaze went to the phone, which he knew would ring shortly. Back to the hunt, back to a psychopath's killing game.

He thought of his daughter, young and proud, sitting in a hotel room right now, diligently scouring financial records. He thought of Rainie, the tilt of her chin, the way she sparked a room just by sauntering through the door. He thought of himself, older, wiser, and determined to learn from his mistakes.

He reached a conclusion. Time to stop mourning the things he had lost. Time to start fighting for what he had left.